A Lot Has Happened
by Flyza
Summary: Gale returns to District 13 after three years of heavy fighting. Lonely and angry, he tries to deal with losing Katniss and fighting in the war. And what should he do with the return of an old acquaintance from District 12? Some dark themes and language.
1. Chapter 1

A Lot Has Happened

A drink. What I need is a drink, I think as I make my way through a dimly lit tunnel. I ignore the grimy floor and occasional guttering fluorescent lights. Neon signs flicker on filthy doors, proclaiming the establishments open, advertising various forms of liquor, and boasting of girls, girls, girls. In the back of my mind, I know that this place would have horrified me three years ago, but after all I've seen fighting in the war, I'm used to such places. Places where I can forget.

In the back of my mind, I know that after the hovercraft landed in District 13, dropping me off after an eighteen-month tour of duty, I should have gone to see my family. I know they must be wondering if I have come home this time, if I'm hurt or alive or left in some ditch with the other dead rebels in what's left of the Capitol.

I was resolved, excited even, to hug my mom again, twirl Posy in the air, and wrestle with my brothers. But then Katniss ran off the hovercraft, shooting past me, and flew into the arms of Peeta Mellark. They were a jumble of twirling arms and laughter and kisses. And Katniss was smiling. Not the bemused smile or sarcastic grin she throws my way when we make grim jokes on the front lines. No, this was a smile of pure joy, her eyes alight with love.

I had known for years that Katniss was in love with Peeta, ever since he had been rescued from the Capitol and she wouldn't leave his side until he was healed. I had long ago given up hope that she would ever love me the way I had loved her, and so I went back to being her friend, burying my feelings until I thought they no longer existed. But now, three years after Katniss had started the rebellion by destroying the Quarter Quell arena, feelings of loneliness and betrayal bubble hotly inside me as I see Peeta swing Katniss in a circle and hear her laughing in his arms.

At that moment, I turn away from the corridor leading to my family's rooms. Instead, I punch the elevator button down to the depths of District 13, down where unsavory pursuits flourish, where men like me go to drink. And to forget.

A momentary twinge of guilt swoops through my stomach. Rebel soldiers sign up for eighteen-month tours, and I have just completed my second. I haven't been home, as far as District 13 can be called home, in a year and a half. And that too was only a brief visit after I had completed my first tour of duty. I know I should go see my family since I have been away so long, but all I can think of is Katniss kissing Peeta, and I continue my search for a suitably quiet bar, a place where I can drink away my sorrows without seeing a familiar face.

Back in District 12, I could never have imagined that I would ever turn to alcohol for comfort. I had been too focused on survival back then. But once I entered the war, I began to focus on survival of a different kind, a mental survival. There were horrors in war I couldn't have begun to imagine in my worst nightmares: political prisoners mutilated beyond recognition by the Capitol, women caught in crossfire, children accidentally maimed during fire bomb drops, and friends and fellow soldiers killed in battle, their intestines spilling out of their guts or their limbs blown off.

I think back to nights in the barracks, hearing soldiers screaming in their sleep, thrashing about, and even crying. I had learned at an early age to control my emotions, but even I would wake with a start in the middle of the night, tense and sweaty, head pounding from the nightmares. Alcohol became a necessity to get through the war. And women became a necessity too, to help me forget my anger over losing Katniss. There were never any serious relationships, just occasional quick flings in the back of a truck or on a mess hall table, to work out my frustration and loneliness.

I shake my head, trying to push back all the thoughts swirling through my mind. I stop in front of a seedy establishment with a painted wooden sign reading The Black Heart. It looks fairly quiet, perfect for my brooding mood. I push open the greasy wood door and make my way straight to the bar.

"Whiskey," I tell the bartender, a fat man with an oily face, filthy apron, and bristly, untrimmed black whiskers. "Leave the bottle," I say as he drops a glass full of amber liquid in front of me. He shrugs, and the bottle drops next to the glass with a thud a moment later.

I take a long pull from my glass, closing my eyes and grimacing as the whiskey burns down my throat. A moment later I begin to feel a pleasantly fuzzy sensation and smile. I pour myself another glass. I allow myself to think of Katniss and Peeta. I know that I am only hurting myself, but the pain feels grimly satisfying, like picking at a half-healed scab or worrying a swollen tooth.

I've made my way through my third glass when I feel a suggestive rub on my shoulder. "Hey handsome," a woman purrs in my ear. I turn slightly to give her a look: half drunk, teased brown hair, small waist, and fake curves. Typical barroom fare. "My name's Starla," she hiccups, "mind if I join you?"

"Sure," I say, pouring her a drink in my glass. I take a pull straight from the bottle as I push the glass towards her. Time to forget about Katniss.

"Thanks, stud," she says, plopping herself straight into my lap. "I do love a man in a uniform…and with stubble," she adds, sliding her hand along my cheek, roughened with two days of growth. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the bottle I'm holding. My black hair is disheveled under my tilted sergeant's hat, there are dark shadows under my eyes, and my uniform jacket is unbuttoned revealing a white undershirt. I look like a mess.

Starla giggles boozily as she drinks, clearly not put off by my uncouth appearance or lack of conversation. Suitably relaxed after drinking the half-bottle of whiskey, I finally take a moment to look around the place. There are several solitary drinkers like me at the bar, a few groups of two or three drinking in the dark corners of the room, and a table in the middle where a group of men play a rowdy game of cards and laugh loudly at their own jokes. A solitary waitress makes her away around the bar in a tight black dress and knee-high black boots. Only her long, wavy blond hair stands out in the smoky room, a bright spot in the dimness.

"Hey Margie!" one of the men playing cards calls to her, slurring his words. "Another round!"

The waitress waves to the man, indicating she's heard him. She walks to the bar, balancing a tray heavy with empty glasses, half-finished plates, and crumpled napkins. She sets the tray on the bar and begins to empty it while the greasy bartender fills mugs of beer for her to take to the men.

"So what's your name, handsome?" Starla asks, pulling my face back towards her.

"Gale," I say absently, taking another pull at the whiskey.

"Well, Gale," she says, taking my hat and putting it on her own head, "you want to get out of here?" she winks slyly from under the lip of the sergeant's cap.

"Sure," I say, not really listening. "Let's get some more whiskey first." I turn to the barkeep in order to ask for another bottle. The waitress has just finished loading her tray with mugs. She hefts the tray, and as she does, flips her hair back to reveal her face.

I squint in surprise, not sure if I'm seeing things. She looks older and tired, but I know I'm not mistaken. I look at her for a second more before I blurt out, "Madge?"

Totally TBC

AN: I know there isn't a lot of Gale/Madge love out there, and I am more of a Gale/Katniss person myself, but seriously people, these two are fun to write together! Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

Part I

"Madge?" I repeat, still squinting at the waitress. I'm sure it's her. She has the same blue eyes and long, blond hair, though she usually kept it tied up back in District 12.

Madge stares at me for a few seconds, blinking in confusion. I guess she's trying to put me into context. "Gale Hawthorne?" she finally says, disbelief in her voice.

"Yeah," I say, giving her a genuine smile. Despite the alcohol, my head suddenly feels completely clear. "I didn't know you made it out of District 12," I say, pulling up a stool.

Madge sets down her heavy tray and slips onto the stool next to me. She looks at me closely, but I can't read her expression in the dim light. "When the bombing started my dad bribed the Peacekeepers to help us out of District 12," she finally says. "We lived in District 11 for a couple years, until the fighting there got really bad. I moved here about a year ago," she explains, reaching behind the bar for a clean glass. So that's why I had never seen her in District 13; she had moved here while I was away fighting.

"What is going on here?" Starla interrupts rudely, pulling a fistful of my jacket so that I am forced to face her. "Who is this tramp?"

I had completely forgotten about Starla when I saw Madge, meaning I am probably more drunk than I realize. I feel a flush climbing up my neck as I think how this must look to Madge. "Just get lost for a minute," I whisper in Starla's ear roughly, pushing her away.

"Jerk," Starla sneers as she slips off my lap and flounces away. She takes my hat with her.

I turn back to Madge, hot with embarrassment, but she doesn't look like she's noticed the interruption. She is focused on pouring herself a glass of whiskey.

"Sorry about that," I mumble, running a hand through my hair in embarrassment. Then I think about my dirty hair, unshaved chin, and alcohol breath. "I'm not really like this…all the time." I stop. I'm not sure why I am trying to justify my behavior to Madge Undersee. I think of her back in District 12, always perfectly groomed and glowing with health from the food she received so easily and which we never seemed to have enough of. I, on the other hand, was always dirty from hunting and suspicious because of my illicit trading. I guess I had always felt inadequate around Madge. Maybe that's why I'm trying so hard to explain myself.

"Forget it," Madge says, shrugging. "A lot has happened in the past few years. We're not the same kids we were back in District 12." She throws back her head and swallows her glass of whiskey in one go.

"I can see that," I say with raised eyebrows. I give Madge a hard look. She is certainly not the clean-cut mayor's daughter that I remember from a few years ago. What's happened to her? "So what are you doing in this place?" I say casually, pouring her another glass of whiskey before taking a swig myself. I hold my breath, not wanting Madge to see how interested I am in her answer.

Madge gives another one of her nonchalant shrugs. "It pays the bills." She pulls the glass of whiskey towards her and runs her finger along its rim thoughtfully. "And I don't really have anywhere else to go," she adds. There's no sadness in her voice. She's just stating facts.

I look at her in surprise. There are all types of wealthy people living in the upper levels of District 13: Capitol citizens who fled because of the war, merchants from other districts, even some of the rebel leaders have amassed enough wealth to live in luxury on the first few levels of the District. Why isn't Madge up there with them? Madge doesn't seem like she wants to talk, but my stomach is burning with curiosity. I can't say why. Maybe I've been starved for news of anyone from District 12 for a long time. Or maybe because I don't understand why Madge's eyes, that were once wide with innocence and good fortune, are now tired and empty of emotion.

"Hmph," I shrug, matching Madge's careless demeanor. "I just never expected to see the mayor's daughter down here slinging pints."

Madge throws back another shot of whiskey. "Yeah well, I'm not anyone's daughter anymore," she says. My head swivels toward her in confusion. Madge is looking down at her hands, twisting the hem of her apron in her lap. She tries to keep her voice steady, "We didn't have time to go back for mom in District 12, and my dad died in 11. That's when I moved here."

The words are like a punch in the gut. "Madge…I'm sorry," I say with genuine feeling, reaching out to touch her shoulder. I know what it's like to lose a parent. I can't imagine losing my entire family, and that too in the middle of a war zone with no place to go. "And the only place you can work is here?" I say without thinking. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Madge turns her clear blue eyes towards me. "I lost everything in 11, and don't have anyone to help me here. This is the best place that would take me." She looks down at her hands again, "Like I said, a lot has happened." She throws me a sideways grin, but the effort is trembling and half-hearted, and her eyes glisten in the dim light.

"Margie! Drinks!" one of the men from the card game calls out rudely, shattering the moment and distracting Madge from anything else she was going to say.

Madge shrugs my hand away and gets up, her emotionless mask falling back in place. "I should get back to work," she says, brushing some crumbs off the front of her dress. I hadn't noticed how tight it was until now. And short. "It was good to see you, Gale," she says before turning away. "Sal," she says to the barkeeper, indicating my empty bottle with her hand. Sal nods and drops a fresh bottle of whiskey in front of me.

"Thanks," I say, but Madge is already gone, balancing her tray laden with beer mugs towards the men playing cards. She hands the mugs out with a smile. One of the men drunkenly reaches out and grabs her thigh. I squeeze my hands into fists, ready to get up and punch the guy in the jaw. But Madge doesn't panic or call for help. She just smiles and slaps the man's hand away playfully, handing him a mug of beer. The other men laugh and throw around a few dirty jokes. Madge laughs along with them and hands them their beers, ignoring their crude remarks. My mouth opens slightly in shock. How can Madge let them treat her this way? Then one of the men hands Madge a crumpled bill, which she slips into her apron pocket. Then I understand.

My jaw tightens. Madge is so much better than this. Anger burns in my stomach as I watch Madge work her way around the bar, picking up dirty dishes, handing out drinks, laughing at the men's insults, and collecting her tips. I can't believe she has sunk to this level, allowing men to insult her and touch her in order to collect a few coins. I take another angry swig of whiskey thinking that this is another reason to hate the Capitol. They took a young girl and destroyed her home and her family, and with no one to help her, she has to make ends meet by allowing letches to grope her in a seedy bar.

Despite her smiles, the more I watch Madge, the more I realize that she hates her job. She smiles at the men, but there is tightness around her eyes. She accepts their tips with a clenched jaw. Just like me, she's doing what she has to do to survive, I think with a little bit of admiration.

But a moment later I rescind the thought. As Madge walks past the bar, a man reaches out and tweaks her hair. Madge looks up and smiles at the man. I am taken aback. This is not one of the fake smiles she gives the drunkards around the bar as she hands them their drinks. This is a real smile. Her shoulders relax and her face softens as the man says something to her. Then she laughs.

My eyes narrow as I take in the man. He's tall and trim, wearing a fitted rebel army uniform. His dark brown hair is swept back neatly under his captain's hat. I don't recognize him, but when he turns a little I recognize the flashing insignia on his lapel. I snort. Air force. Must be some clown from District 13. Thirteen was the only district with the resources and time to have developed really good fighter pilots before the war, a fact that the D13 fighter pilots never let anyone else forget.

I look back towards Madge and realize with dismay that she doesn't think this guy is clown at all. She is still smiling at him. And she doesn't stop smiling, even when he reaches out a hand and runs it gently up and down her bare arm. Slimy bastard.

I clench my jaw, but the alcohol has softened me around the edges so that I can't quite grasp the anger I'm looking for. Instead I feel an unexplainable wave of sadness. Madge may be working in a dump, but even she has managed to find someone. Just like Katniss found Peeta. After meeting Madge again after all this time, I had let myself think that I had found someone like me, broken after the devastation of the war. But Madge isn't broken, I think grimly, looking at her blushing in front of the slick air force schmoozer. She's whole enough to be with someone. Only I am broken beyond repair.

The thought makes me so sad, that I grab the bottle of whiskey and take several desperate gulps. I want to forget all about Madge, her blond hair, dead parents and slimy boyfriend. I look around quickly and see Starla skulking near by.

"Hey Starla," I call out, plastering a cocky grin on my face. "Still want to get out of here?"

Starla glares at me, "Not after the way you ditched me for that tramp," she says, but she still walks towards me. It's almost too easy. She grabs the bottle of whiskey and takes a sip. "Not after the way your eyes just followed her around the bar for about an hour." I gulp. I hadn't realized I had been staring at Madge.

I take a quick glance over to Madge. She is blushing and handing the air force captain a drink. His hand is on her hip, and their faces are only inches apart. I swallow my pain and turn back to Starla. I lean in and give her a long kiss. "Well, who am I looking at now?" I say, breaking away from her.

Starla giggles. "Alright, handsome. Come on," she says, pulling me up by my collar. I follow her out, making sure to grab the whiskey before we go.

Part II

"Madge?" I hear a familiar voice call my name. It takes me a moment to register. No one in the bar knows that I used to shorten my name to Madge back in District 12. Only people I care about still call me Madge instead of Margaret of Margie.

I look up and inhale quickly. It can't be. But it is. There he is in front of me. After more than three years. He's more muscular and his chin is covered by a dark shadow of stubble, but it's definitely him. In a disheveled rebel uniform.

God he looks good.

All of the nervousness and long-forgotten giddiness of my youth come flooding back like I'm still 16 and answering his knock at my back door. "Gale Hawthorne?" I say, still not quite believing it.

"Yeah," he says, his face lighting up in a real smile. A smile he has never directed at me before. He pulls out a stool, asking me about how I got out of District 12. I take the stool, looking at Gale closely. He seems a bit worse for wear, and the drunken bimbo on his lap is a little distracting, but he seems genuinely happy to see me. This is something new. Something I could get used to.

"When the bombing started my dad bribed the Peacekeepers to help us out of the District," I say as calmly as I can. No need to hyperventilate over the fact that I have been pining over this man for years, only to find him at my place of business after three years' absence with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a plastic floozy in the other. "We lived in District 11 for a couple years, until the fighting there got really bad. I moved here about a year ago," Keep breathing, Madge, I coach myself.

Just then, the bimbo makes her presence known, demanding Gale's attention with a few petulant words. I feel like shouting the same petulant words at Gale myself, I mean does she really think _I _am the tramp in this situation? But even this floozy has more of a claim on Gale's affections than I do and more of a right to his attention. The thought makes me cringe inside. I have wanted Gale for as long as I can remember, and when he finally looks away from Katniss Everdeen for one second, he would rather have this half-drunk tramp than me. I turn away from the two of them and hide my pain by carefully pouring myself a glass of whiskey. Gale sends the girl away, but I don't react. Play it cool, Madge, I think. No need to let Gale know how much his presence is affecting you.

Gale asks a few questions, obviously trying to figure out how Madge Undersee ended up working in this hellhole. I try to avoid giving him too many details, but when he mentions how my dad used to be mayor, I can't help it anymore. I feel my eyes prickle and I fight to keep my voice from breaking when I tell him about my parents. Thank goodness the glass of whiskey in front of me gives me something to do.

When Gale tells me he's sorry about my parents, there is such feeling in his voice that I think I really will cry. And when he reaches out and touches my shoulder, the only thing I can think is that this is the first time we've really touched aside from the occasional brushing of fingers when he handed me a bag of strawberries and I handed him a handful of coins. The memory of my anticipation of his visits to my back door is so sweet and seems so far away that it takes all my strength not to fall into his arms bawling right here at the bar.

"Margie! Drinks!" comes the rude call, shattering the mood completely. I quickly withdraw inward, shocked that I had been so close to weeping all over Gale Hawthorne. This is Gale Hawthorne, I remind myself sternly as I get up and straighten my dress, I may have been pining over him for the past five years, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't given me a thought in all that time.

I look up to tell Gale that I have to get back to work, and I think he actually looks disappointed. I brush the thought away quickly. Gale Hawthorne never liked me. Why would he start now?

I heft my tray of beers and get back to work. My job isn't mentally taxing, and I go through the motions without paying much attention, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and conflicting emotions. It's been three years since I've seen Gale, and many months more since we've had even a semi-conversation with one another. I cringe at thought of our relationship back in District 12: my shy admiration of his strength and bravery, which I always hid behind an indifferent façade. His tolerance, bordering on rudeness, because I was a rich but reliable customer.

After I had escaped District 12, I had been too busy to spend a lot of time dwelling on my past. I had to deal with my mother's death and still had trouble doing so because I had no closure. There was no opportunity to recover her body from the ashes of District 12, and I was plagued by nightmares of my mother burning to death or surviving the fire but slowly wasting away because there was no one left at home to take care of her. My father and I had been busy too, trying to stay hidden from the Peacekeepers in District 11 and aiding the rebellion in our own small ways.

Once the Peacekeepers began to clamp down on rebel activities and my dad was killed, I managed to make it to District 13 with a group of refugees. Once I found this mind-numbing job, I had time to think about my old life in District 12. It seemed so far away and depressingly unattainable after all I had been through.

It was at those times that I would remember Gale. I don't run into many nice men in my line of work, and whenever I meet an especially crude customer, my mind inevitably flits to Gale. Ever since moving here, I have wanted desperately to meet someone like him: someone who loves and respects his family, someone who is strong and capable, someone who can help me rather than give me more to worry about, and, let's face it, someone who is really damn good looking too.

I never thought that the real flesh-and-blood Gale Hawthorne would ever appear in my life again in all his broad-shouldered, casually-stubbled glory. And I certainly never dreamed that he would return with a Haymitch-esque tendency to drink himself into oblivion and a very un-Haymitch-esque proclivity for cheap women.

And more than anything, I never thought that Gale Hawthorne would ever see me like this: squeezed into a ridiculously tight dress and accepting tips from drunken oglers. My jaw clenches at the thought, and I refuse to look in Gale's direction, afraid of seeing judgment in his eyes. Or worse yet, seeing blank apathy in his eyes because he doesn't care about me at all.

I am so lost in thought, that I don't notice the man at the bar until he reaches out at tugs one of my curls. I look up, and I can feel my whole body relaxing at the sight.

"Hey honey, you'll break a tooth if you clench your jaw so tight," he drawls, and I can't help but laugh.

"What are you doing here, Mazer?" I ask, moving closer. I can't help but notice how clean and handsome he looks in comparison to the other men in the bar. His coat tapers perfectly with his body, his clipped hair is neatly swept under his cap, and he leans on the bar with the nonchalant grace of the supremely confident.

"I came to see you, honey," he says, reaching out a hand and running it lightly up and down my arm. I take embarrassed pleasure in the tingles his touch elicits. "I'm still hoping to convince you to go out with me. Just say yes," he says with a smirk. "You know I won't stop bothering you until you do."

"Let me get you a drink," I say with a smile, stalling for time. When I get behind the bar, I look down with a soft sigh and go through the same mental debate I always have with myself when Mazer asks me out. I begin by acknowledging how I am very attracted to him. But I also know in the back of my mind that he's a little too slick for his own good. He's too well versed in the art of flirtation to have not gotten around.

But then again, Mazer has been nothing but sweet with me. I remember back to the day we met several weeks ago. I was hurrying past the Level 2 rebel captains' quarters on my way to work when I bumped into Mazer without thinking. Instead of brushing me off and moving on, Mazer stopped to check if I was all right. He made small talk as he walked me to the elevator, claiming he was headed down a few levels too. But when we reached the elevators, Mazer ushered me in and winked at me as I blushed, finally realizing that he didn't need the elevator but rather had gone out of his way to talk to me.

After that, I found myself running into Mazer; he would show up at the bar or happen to be perusing the shelves at the convenience store where I normally shop. He was always polite, asking me about my day or sharing funny stories about his superior officers. And he always gave me a smile that held a promise of something more. I began to look forward to running into Mazer, and seeing him always sent spirals of pleasure and embarrassment racing down my spine.

Mazer is one of the only nice men that I've met since arriving in District 13. And there is no doubt about it; I am ridiculously attracted to him. He is sweet and funny and a little dangerous. And he knows his way around women, meaning that I would be guaranteed a good time with him if we ever went out. Whenever I ask myself why I haven't agreed to go out with Mazer, I can't seem to come up with a satisfactory response. Maybe it's because he is so slick and confident. Or maybe it's because I find him so attractive; I know I wouldn't be able to control myself with him.

I can't say why, but I take a quick look over at Gale.

He's talking to Starla again.

My stomach twists with disappointment. I glance back to Mazer, and it hits me. Why should I be afraid of losing control with him? My life has been hard enough the past few years. It can't really be so wrong to enjoy the attentions of a man who actually finds me attractive and who treats me like more than a pretty face and nice body. Why should I spend all my time mooning over Gale, who would rather flirt with a walking STD than give me the time of day?

I grab Mazer's drink and walk back to him with new, rebellious resolution.

I hand Mazer his drink, and he surprises my by putting his hand on my hip and slowly pulling me closer before taking the proffered bottle of beer. He gives me a slow sideways grin, and my breath catches in my throat. "So what do you say, honey? You still haven't answered my question."

I hesitate for a split second, and my eyes flit involuntarily towards Gale. He's actually kissing Starla.

I turn away quickly, bile rising in my throat. "Yes," I say, before I can change my mind.

"What?" Mazer says in surprise.

"Yes, I'll go out with you," I say clearly, looking into his eyes.

"Well, I'll be damned," he answers, a dazzling smile lighting up his face. I can't help but laugh. We set up a time and place for our date, and it isn't until I've laughingly convinced him that I do in fact, really want to go out with him that I look back at Gale.

He's gone.

So is the bottle of whiskey.

And Starla.


	3. Chapter 3

Part I

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache. My eyes scratch painfully, and my throat feels like it's been dried out and filled with cobwebs. It's hot and stuffy under the tangle of sheets, and my body feels sticky with sweat and exhaustion.

I gingerly open my eyes and blearily look at the clock. It's only nine in the morning. How can I be awake so early? Then my stomach churns painfully, and I realize that I'm starving. I didn't eat anything last night, and the last meal I can remember was a protein bar on the army hovercraft.

My head aches, but I know I have to get out of bed in order to find food. I immediately think of my mother. It's Sunday morning and she's probably making something nice for breakfast. Perfect.

Turning my head slowly, I catch a glimpse of the woman sleeping next to me. Normally I don't spend the night with the girls that I use to distract myself from Katniss, and now I remember why. Out of my alcohol-induced stupor of last night, the woman looks terrible. Her brown hair is a teased mess around her face, black makeup smudges circle her eyes, and her fake tan looks especially orange and blotchy. Ugh.

"Get up," I say, prodding her shoulder none too gently.

"Hm?" she murmurs contentedly. She half opens her eyes and rolls over, trying to snuggle up next to me. I try not to vomit.

"Get away from me," I say groggily, pushing her away.

"Hm?" she mumbles, her face still foggy with sleep. "It's so early."

"Seriously, get out of here," I say scratchily, punctuating my words with another shove.

"Wait, you're kicking me out?" she says indignantly, her eyes widening as she realizes what I am saying. She pounds the bed with her fist, sending fireworks of pain popping in front of my eyes.

"You know what last night was," I say, my head pounding and my throat scratching agonizingly. "Now get out of here." I close my eyes tiredly and turn away, willing her to leave.

"You are such a jerk!" she says, but I feel the weight shift of the bed as she gets up. I hear her fumbling around with her clothes for a minute before she pauses. I can tell that she's looking at me, but I don't open my eyes.

"Maybe we can hang out again sometime," she says.

"Yeah, maybe," I agree without turning around. I neglect to mention that she disgusts me and that I can't remember her name. She'll leave faster this way.

And she does leave, closing the door softly behind her. I let out a sigh of relief and open my eyes. I lift myself painfully into a sitting position, and when the world around me stops spinning, I carefully stand up and walk unevenly to the bathroom, nearly tripping on an empty bottle of whiskey on my way. I drink three glasses of tepid tap water in quick succession, trying to sooth my burning throat. I can feel the water hitting the empty pit of my stomach, causing it to churn with nausea and hunger.

Finally I set the glass down and look in the mirror. I look terrible. My hair is sticking up in all directions, I haven't shaved in three days, and my eyes are rimmed in red. What's happened to me? I shake my head and look down, feeling sick. I know exactly what's happened to me. The war. And Katniss. And that ass Peeta Mellark.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I suddenly don't want to go see my family. I feel callous and coarse and dirty and jaded, and I know that so much has happened that my family won't recognize the new me. This angry, disappointed version of myself that even I've been running from, trying to ignore my reflection in the mirror by drinking and losing myself in various women. Suddenly, I feel very distant from my family because we've been apart for so long. They won't understand what I've been through, and they won't understand what I've become.

My stomach roils again, and I resignedly surmise that the quickest way to sate my hunger is to go see my mother. And distasteful as it is, I should probably see my family regardless. They at least deserve to know that I'm still alive.

I look back up at myself in the mirror, and know one thing for damn sure: I cannot show up to my mother's place looking like this. I turn on the hot water in the shower and don't step in until clouds of steam fill the bathroom. I scrub myself thoroughly, trying to wash away all my anger along with the dirt and sweat. Afterwards, I take the time to brush my hair and shave carefully. I may be suffering right now, but I sure as hell am not going to let my family know about it.

About half an hour later I'm ready and feeling better; I'm even a little excited to see my family. My head still pounds dully, but I feel more awake and alert than I have in weeks. I make my way out of my room in the cluster of subsidized army housing and walk towards the residential section of D13. The hallways twist and turn, and I think that there is one thing I miss about fighting in the war, and that is the chance to be outside. And be active. Not that I enjoy death and destruction, but there's nothing like recklessly firing a machine gun or bombing an enemy stronghold to take out your frustrations at the world.

When I reach the door leading to my mother's apartment, I take a deep breath and run an apprehensive hand through my hair before knocking. I hear the murmur of voices behind the door and the bright sound of Posy giggling. I step closer to the door and strain my ears; I haven't heard Posy laughing in so long that I'd forgotten the sound. I hear the shuffle of footsteps, and the door opens.

My mother is standing there. Her dark hair is tied back, and there are flour smudges on her apron and across one cheek where she must have pushed back a strand of hair.

"Hey mom," I say, suddenly feeling guilty for not coming to see her sooner.

She stares at me for a few seconds, her mouth working. "Oh my goodness. Gale!" she finally says, sweeping me into a hug.

I start in surprise at the contact. Her arms are tight around me and her hair is soft against my cheek. She smells like soap and flour, and the smell sends me straight back to our one-bedroom home in the Seam. I close my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent, and squeeze back tightly, my whole body relaxing into her. As my body unwinds, I realize how tense I must have been the past eighteen months. My shoulders ache from being bunched up for so long.

"Gale!" I hear a girlish cry. I pull back from my mother and just in time because a squealing Posy is running towards me, her little pink dress and dark hair flying.

"Hey sweet," I say as she rockets in to me. I lift her straight off the ground and into my arms.

"You're home! You're home! You're home!" she cries between planting giggling kisses all over my cheeks.

"Look how much you've grown!" I say with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. And it's true. Posy is no longer a toddler; she now has the skinny legs and scraped knees of a young kid.

"Hey, Gale," I hear. I see Vick's curly hair and self-conscious smile peeking out from behind my mother as he waits his turn. My heart bursts with affection.

"Hey baby brother," I say, putting Posy down and stepping toward him. Vick has grown too, but he still looks like his young, bashful self. I pull him into a hug, ruffling his hair. I feel his little hands curling around my back and think again that I should have come home sooner.

When I finally let go, I look up to see Rory. An uncomfortable lump develops in the back of my throat. Rory has grown several inches since I last saw him and now fills out his clothes. Correction: my clothes, ones that I used to wear back in the Seam. He almost looks like a man.

But then he cracks a grin and runs towards me, and I know that Rory may have had to grow up once I left for the war, but he's still my younger brother inside. "Hey little man!" I say. We aren't a super-affectionate family, but I don't think twice before pulling Rory into a hug and pounding him on the back.

"I want another turn!" says Posy, pulling Rory off of me and hugging my leg.

"Give him some room to breathe," my mom laughs, but I can see that her eyes are a little moist. Posy shakes her head vigorously and refuses to let go. "At least let him come into the house!" she says, shooing us all inside and shutting the door. "Just give me a minute, Gale. Breakfast is almost ready," she says, touching my arm lightly before walking towards the kitchen.

"Sounds good," I say before reaching down to tickle Posy, right under her ribs where I remember she's most ticklish. I am rewarded with a piercing shriek. She writhes and squeals in protest, but doesn't let go of my leg.

"Let's get her!" Vick cries, diving in and trying to pry Posy off my leg. Rory joins in too, tickling Posy along her stomach.

Vick finally manages to lift Posy into the air, and he twirls her around so she gets dizzy too.

"Vick stop! Mom!" Posy shrieks. "Madge!"

My mom's voice comes from the kitchen, "Boys, stop ganging up on your sister!" The phrase is so familiar from my years in the Seam that I can't help but smile.

Vick sets Posy down and playfully tugs her hair. She flops to the ground, her cheeks red, clutching her tummy dramatically.

All of a sudden, I inhale quickly, realizing what I've just heard. "Wait, did she just say Madge?" I say in shock, thinking that I've misheard Posy.

Vick collapses onto the floor next to Posy, trying to catch his breath. "Yeah, ever since Madge started coming around, Posy thinks she has an ally against us."

"Wait, Madge Undersee?" I say stupidly, still not getting it.

"Yeah," says Rory, throwing himself onto the couch. "You remember her, the mayor's daughter."

My head spins. "Yeah, I know who she is! I just didn't know _you_ kn-"

Just then I hear a clattering in the kitchen, and Madge Undersee walks out with a stack of plates and utensils, heading towards the table as if it is the most natural thing in the world for her to be setting out placemats for the Hawthorne family brunch.

She pauses, noticing the suddenly quiet room. She looks up and our eyes meet. Her mouth falls open slightly. "Oh!" she breathes out. She blinks. "Hey, Gale."

"Hey, Madge," I say incredulously. I open my mouth to ask her what she is doing here, when Rory slaps me on the shoulder.

"See? You do remember her!" he says.

My mom bustles out of the kitchen. "Of course you remember her, don't you Gale?" she says, putting a hand on Madge's shoulder. Madge looks down, blushing slightly. To be honest, I feel a little warm around the collar too. Like me, Madge must be thinking of what happened last night.

"Yeah," I say as calmly as possible. "I just didn't realize that she would be here."

"I can go," Madge says, looking up at my mom. "I don't want to mess up you're family reunion." She turns to me, "I wouldn't have come but I didn't think you'd get here so early."

Madge stops talking and bites her lip, realizing that she may have said too much. She must have known that I would be completely hungover this morning and probably thought that she could have breakfast with my family and leave before I even woke up. I am definitely feeling warm now.

"Nonsense," my mother says, matter-of-factly. "You don't mind if Madge stays, do you Gale?"

I look at Madge, whose cheeks are still tinged lightly with pink. I kind of do wish that she would leave, mostly because she knows about my embarrassing behavior last night, which is something I most definitely don't want my family to find out about. But my mother really hasn't left me any other choice.

"Sure," I say tightly. I clear my throat. "Of course you can stay."

"Yay!" Posy cheers, running up to Madge. "Here let's set the table so then we can play," she says grabbing the plates straight out of an overwhelmed Madge's hands.

I start to say that I'll lay the table when Rory surprises me by jumping off the sofa. "I'll help too!" he says, hurrying towards the kitchen.

"Me too!" Vick says, leaping up off the ground. I feel slightly miffed. Since when do my siblings actually volunteer to help around the house?

"Thanks, guys!" Madge says, smiling at all of them. She doesn't look at me.

I stand around awkwardly for a few seconds, feeling a little useless. But it's not as though it takes five people to lay a table, and my boisterous siblings under Madge's guidance seem to have it under control.

Posy takes a little too much for granted. Oblivious to my internal debate, she runs over and pushes me onto the couch. "You can't help, Gale!" she says, "You have to watch. Madge showed us how to lay the table properly!"

"What do you mean properly?" I say, but she's already running away to help with the table.

My shoulders bunch up again, and I narrow my eyes at the scene in front of me. I watch Madge good-naturedly stop Rory from making fun of Posy's giggling struggle on tiptoe to set the hot plates in the middle of the table, and I feel an unexpected wave of resentment coil in my gut. After all of the starving children, mutilated friends, and sheer devastation of the war, coming home had been surprisingly healing until Madge appeared. I watch the kids laughing with Madge, and I grit my teeth, angry that she had to be here to remind me of last night and to pull my siblings away from me.

Leaning forward on the sofa, I realize with a start that my siblings look much better fed than they ever did in District 12. When we first arrived in D13 I had been so angry to find the wealthy underground metropolis. I hated all the inhabitants of D13 because they were living in relative comfort while the rest of Panem was paying for their sins. It wasn't until now that I realized my family is well fed because of the wealth and opportunity to be had here. Somehow this realization only makes me angrier, and I clench my jaw, knowing that I wasn't here to help my family make a way in their new home. I even feel a little useless, knowing that they didn't need my help. They seem to be getting along just fine with Madge instead of me.

My mom emerges from the kitchen with two plates, one piled high with hotcakes and the other loaded with bacon. My mouth immediately begins to water and the smell causes my stomach to clench in anticipation. After eating packets of freeze-dried food and protein bars in the field for the past year and a half, I had almost forgotten the joy that is hot, fresh food. And I've certainly never seen a spread like this in my life.

I make an effort to swallow my anger before getting off the couch and striding towards the table. I scoop Posy up on my way. She squeals as I throw her lightly up in the air. I catch her deftly and set her down in the seat next to mine. Madge sits down across from me. I ignore her.

I sneak a look at my mom; she is busy wiping a spot of flour off of Posy's cheek. Before she can scold me, I dart a hand out and grab a hotcake quickly. I toss the hotcake between my hands and blow sloppily, trying not to burn my self.

"At least _try_ and be a good example to your younger siblings," my mom says with a resigned sigh as I stuff the hotcake whole into my mouth. "For goodness sake, Gale, you are an adult, right?" she says as I try to look innocent by widening my eyes. My efforts are undermined by my cheeks bulging with the ill-gotten pancake.

"You wish, mom," Rory says, helping himself from the plate of bacon.

"Iym hungwy" I grumble, before swallowing the pancake in one enormous gulp. "And you, watch yourself," I say to Rory, flicking a crumb at him before reaching for the plate of hotcakes again.

"You may be a rebel war hero, but you regress into a child when you're here," my mom retorts. There is a twinkle in her eye though, telling me she is secretly pleased that I'm acting like a little boy again after all these years.

"That's why you love me," I say, shooting her my most charming grin.

"Ugh, gross," Vick says, rolling his eyes at my efforts to suck up to mom.

"Speaking of war heroes," my mom says, pointedly brushing over our brotherly ribbing, "Madge, how is the new boyfriend?"

I choke on the hotcake in my mouth as I turn to face Madge.

She is blushing and looking at her plate. "Mazer isn't my boyfriend, Mrs. Hawthorne."

"Mazer?" I say with a mix of surprise and irritation, thinking of the man last night at the bar. "Mazer Preston?"

Madge nods miserably, not meeting my gaze. I frown. Captain Mazer Preston is a famous air force pilot, with a reputation as one of the best surgical strikers in the rebel forces. And a notorious womanizer.

I open my mouth to say something when Posy says, "But why Madge? He's so cute! You should make him your boyfriend."

I choke again, and this time there is no hotcake in my mouth. As soon as I recover, I turn to my sister. "Posy Hawthorne, you are absolutely too young to think boys are…cute." I stutter on the word. "Do you understand?" I stare at her sternly, fixing her with a dangerous scowl.

"_Gale_," she whines, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "I'm a _girl_! I'm supposed to think boys are cute." She turns back to Madge. "So? Why don't you make Mazer your boyfriend?"

"It's not that simple," Madge says, shifting in her seat uncomfortably.

I remember the slimy air force pilot from yesterday, who, I have to admit, may be considered good looking, if you like over-coiffed, smarmy kind of guys. I think back to the way he was stroking Madge's hip last night and snort. Who does she think she is pretending that there isn't anything going on between them? "I'm sure it's because _Mazer_ is an idiot," I interject rudely.

"Gale!" my mother says in surprise.

"Mazer isn't an idiot…" Posy argues earnestly, touching my arm with her hand, sticky with syrup.

"Oy, watch it!" I say, swatting at the sticky spots on my arm.

"…he's a famous fighter pilot!"

"He's famous for more than being a fighter pilot," I mumble darkly.

"What are you talking about?" Madge says, finally looking up.

"Don't be so naïve, Madge," I say, turning on her. I don't notice my voice rising in anger. "We've all heard the stories about the infamous Mazer Preston. He chews up girls and spits them out, usually because they don't know any better."

"Gale!" my mother says, her voice laced with warning. Warning which I choose to ignore.

"And I don't appreciate you coming here and telling my little sister all about your slimy boyfriend and his-"

"Gale!" my mother says more forcefully, standing up.

"What?!" I say, venomously, looking at her.

"I need help in the kitchen," she says tightly. "The rest of you, finish your breakfast."

"This conversation is not over," I spit out at Madge before pushing back my chair and storming after my mother, slamming the door behind us.

As soon as the door is shut my mother turns on me. "What the hell is the matter with you?" she hisses, her eyes flashing.

"Me? What's the matter with you?" I say, glaring back. "How could you let Madge around our family? She has nothing to do with us and never will. She's a bad influence with all of her talk of boys and…and Mazer bloody Preston! God, mom, do you even know where she works?"

"Yes," mom says firmly. "And if anything, that should make you want to be nicer to her. She's been through a lot, just like you."

"She may have lost her parents," I hiss back, "but that does not give her the right to come around here and, and…_corrupt_ Posy."

"She is not corrupting anyone!" mom whispers back fiercely. "She has been a big sister to the kids. How dare you come here and judge her after you've been gone for the last three damn years!"

Her words are like a hard punch in the gut, confirming my fears from this morning about abandoning my family.

I must be making a really ugly face because my mom backpedals, "I didn't mean it like that, Gale."

"So you think Madge is a better sibling than me?" I say. I try to keep my voice hard, but it cracks slightly at the end. I cross my arms over my chest and look away, unable to meet my mother's eyes.

"No," she says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. She pulls my face so that I'm forced to look at her. "You'll always be their big brother, Gale, but you've been gone these three years. It's just been hard for all of us, even Madge. I'm only asking that you give her a break."

My mom's hand rests on my shoulder carrying with it the soft scent of soap and flour. The truth of her words sinks in and my shoulders sag with defeat. In fighting for the rebellion I've let down my family, and Madge is filling the hole I left behind. My anger drains away into a painful resignation that I recognize. It's the same feeling I had when I realized that Katniss loved Peeta.

"And the kids don't know about where she works," my mom adds as an afterthought. "Madge never talks about her work around them." She sighs and looks away, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "You know, I've begged Madge to leave that job, but she won't accept any help. She won't take a job that she can't get on her own…and she won't take any money either."

My mom looks exhausted, and I feel a wave of guilt.

"I'm sorry," I say, thoroughly ashamed. "For blowing up at you….and for leaving you for three years…"

"It's alright, Gale. You were fighting for something you believe in," mom says firmly. "Just try and be nice to Madge. She's gone through so much, and she's been a great help to me with the kids." She pauses. "We owe her a lot, even if you don't know it."

I sigh, thinking of Madge working at that awful bar last night. I see her face, gleaming pale in the smoky room and her hair falling down her back in soft curls. And I remember how her voice broke when she told me about her parents. Guilt burns my throat and heat crawls up my neck.

"Fine, I'll apologize," I say tiredly. I feel empty.

"Thank you," my mother says, squeezing my arm. "You're doing the right thing."

I nod and open the kitchen door. The boys have disappeared upstairs, but I see Madge and Posy in the sitting room, Posy braiding Madge's hair and chattering happily.

I run a quick hand through my hair, feeling like a total cad. I take a deep breath and walk over to the two of them.

"Hey Posy," I interrupt. "Can you help mom with the dishes? I want to talk to Madge for a second."

Posy looks up at me with her wide eyes. "Are you going to yell again?" she says protectively. I feel another wave of shame.

"No, I'm not going to yell," I say, not looking at Madge.

"Ok," Posy agrees, slipping off the couch and toddling to the kitchen.

I sigh, not knowing what to say. Madge refuses to look at me, running her hand through the carpet uneasily instead.

I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry," we both say at the same time. Our eyes meet in surprise.

"No, I'm sorry," Madge says quickly. "I never should have butted into your family. And I _never_ should have mentioned Mazer-"

"No!" I say forcefully, putting up my hand to stop her. Madge snaps her mouth shut abruptly, and I can see a small trace of fear in her eyes. "No," I say, clearing my throat. "I'm the one who should apologize."

I sit on the floor next to her. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. I wasn't even mad at you." I sigh in frustration. "Look, I'm not good at talking about this kind of stuff, but I was just…angry."

I think of Madge smiling at the overly stylized air force captain last night and the light in Katniss's eyes as she ran off the hovercraft towards the always perfectly romantic Peeta Mellark. And I remember waking up next to that fake-tanned floozy this morning. I clench my jaw. "Ever since the war started I've been…losing things," I say. I turn to Madge, trying to make her understand. "I was taking my anger out on you because I was just…jealous," I force myself to say. "You've been here with my family while I've been away, and it…hurts." I finish lamely, unable to vocalize my feelings of anger and guilt.

I run my hand through my hair again, looking at the ground and trying to come up with the right words. I've felt so hopeless the past few years: losing District 12, fighting in the war, giving up Katniss, it's all taken its toll. And seeing Madge with my family, it made me feel like an outsider in the one place that I finally felt safe again.

I open my mouth to explain to Madge, but I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. I turn to her in surprise.

"It's alright, Gale," she says, smiling gently. "I didn't mean to intrude on your family, and I hope I don't make you feel like you're losing them."

My mouth falls open. "How do you know exactly what I'm feeling?" I say without thinking.

"Because I know what it's like to lose your home and family," she says seriously. I don't know what to say, but then a small smile plays around her lips. "And because I'm a genius," she says with a grin.

Her response takes me by surprise, and I half snort, half laugh. "Yeah right," I say with a smirk. I sober up for a second and look into her eyes. "Forgiven?" I ask. I throw her my most charming smile, the one that I used as a kid to get out of trouble with mom, the one that even Katniss couldn't say no to.

"Yes, you're forgiven," Madge says with a laugh. "And don't look at me like that!" she adds, shoving my shoulder playfully.

I smile back at Madge, noticing for the first time how different she looks when she laughs. In her easy white sundress she looks younger, less on guard, more like the innocent, carefree Madge I remember from District 12. Not the tense, serious girl from last night. But though she looks more relaxed, she's definitely not the girl I sold strawberries years ago. She's thinner, and there's knowledge in her eyes. My eyes slide down, taking her in. Madge Undersee has defintely grown up.

"Are you going to kiss now?"

"What?" I say in surprise. My heads whips around and I see Posy surveying us from the kitchen doorway. I look back at Madge. "What? No!" I say, but I can feel the telltale heat clawing up my neck. "Damn it, Posy, you can't ask people that!" I say, uncomfortable that Posy noticed the turn in my thoughts.

"Well it just looked like it," Posy says matter-of-factly. "So, are you two friends now?" she asks, walking over and plopping herself between us.

I look at Madge, not really sure how to respond. She's blushing, which makes me smile. "Yes, we're friends now," she says, meeting my gaze, one of her blond curls falling into her eyes.

I smile back, relaxing. "Yeah, we're friends." The words sound strange in my mouth.

"Good," Posy says emphatically, thumping each of us on the shoulder.

"Well, I should probably go," Madge says, breaking our gaze, her cheeks still pink. She scoots over and her hand brushes my leg as she pulls Posy into her lap. "I'll see you later," she says, kissing Posy on the cheek. "Be good for your brother, alright."

Posy nods eagerly. "Bye, Madge! Come back soon!"

"Bye, Gale," Madge says as she gets up, brushing my shoulder lightly with her hand. From my sitting position I have an excellent view of her bare legs.

"Um, bye," I say, my voice cracking.

Part II

I see Gale Hawthorne again today. I can't believe it when I walk out of the kitchen, and he's just _there_. He looks completely different from last night, his stubble and disheveled uniform gone. Instead, his hair is clean, and still slightly wet and unkempt from his shower this morning. He's wearing a simple grey t-shirt, fitted enough to stretch over his muscles.

I can't breath.

And we actually talk. Sure, there was an argument before we started talking, but honestly I can't really remember most of it. I'm not sure how it happened, but all of a sudden I'm sitting on the floor of his mother's apartment, and Gale Hawthorne is telling me that that the war has made him angry and bitter. He tells me that he wishes he could have been there for his family. He apologizes. For the first time, we've made a real connection, and the thought makes me tingle all over.

I want with all my heart to sit on the floor of the Hawthorne's apartment forever, just _being_ with him. No more arguing, no more mask of indifference, just the two of us talking. Laughing. Together.

But then Posy comes in and in her childish wisdom asks us if we're going to kiss. I don't think I've ever blushed so hard in my life, especially because I've never wanted anything more in the world than to be kissed by Gale Hawthorne. Luckily, Gale doesn't seem to notice; he's too busy shushing Posy.

I see a blush crawling up his neck though, and I can't stop smiling. Gale Hawthorne is shy…of kissing me! The thought is heady and I feel happiness bubbling up inside me like champagne. I know I can't stay here any longer without letting my giddiness show.

"Well, I should probably go," I hear myself say, though my voice sounds miles away. I scoot closer, hoping to touch Gale again before I go. I feel a thrill as I brush my hand against his leg, and I hide my smile by kissing Posy on the cheek.

I'm so happy, I can't sit still. I hum the whole way back to my apartment. And when I get there, I lock the door and squeal, doing a happy dance in front of the mirror.

A/N: So I'm not really sure how this chapter got so long, but I wanted to show Gale's interactions with his family and some of his residual anger from the war and losing Katniss. Let me know if you like the longer or shorter chapters and I will try to accommodate!


	4. Chapter 4

*****Just reposting with some minor formatting/grammatical adjustments!

**A/N:** A quick thanks to **scoobygal**, **StillOnCloud9**, **hollah**, and **IsForWinners** for your reviews of the last chapter. Also to my anonymous reviewers: **Eliza**, so glad you like the story, and **TEAM MELLARK**, I'm so happy you think the characters are true to their nature; I agonize over that constantly. And thanks for the shout-out to Gale's Games…it made my day. Upwards and onwards, all…Enjoy!

Part I. 6 pm.

They're all smiling: Rory laughing and shaking his tousled black curls, Posy giggling and standing on tip toe to see better, and even Madge stopped by, her face glowing and her hair tumbling down her shoulders in a soft waterfall as she cheers for Vick. Vick is smiling too. A hint of an embarrassed grin playing across his reddened features as he ducks his head bashfully at the cheers of happy birthday.

In the back of my head I think that I should be smiling too, but all I can manage is lips set in a grimly satisfied line. I can't afford to show any more emotion than this. I can't afford to _feel_ any more emotion than this. If I acknowledge how much I love my family, so much that I ache with it, if I acknowledge how much this simple little birthday party pulls at my heart and calls me to come home, I would never be able to go back to war.

And I'm going back to war. The meetings started a few days ago. Briefings, strategies, equipment fittings. And with all the maps and plans and talk of acceptable risk have come my anger and my memories of the war. And I silently curse the Capitol for intruding even on my few weeks with my family, my one small reprieve from fighting.

I signed up for my third tour of duty weeks ago, before I had come home. And as much as I want to stay with my family and help my mom, teach Rory about the woods, listen to Vick's stories, and watch Posy grow up, I'm honor bound to go back.

I'm not leaving the job unfinished.

Because I hate the Capitol. I hate them with a toxic hatred burning in my gut. Hatred so violent that it scares me. It's the Capitol's fault that we live in this underground labyrinth with no light and sunshine, the Capitol's fault that such a small celebration can mean the world to my family, the Capitol's fault that I can't even begin to count on both hands the number of friends I have lost in the war. The Capitol's fault that I have seen…but it's better not to think about the things I've seen.

I think about the Capitol, and I can't smile. But my family is smiling, and they aren't wearing that pinched look of worry and hunger that I'm so used to seeing. And for that, I'm grimly satisfied.

My mom emerges from the kitchen with a small cake adorned with a solitary red candle, and Vick actually squeaks in excitement. Even I'm surprised. We never had birthday cakes growing up, and even in District 13 on her salary as a housekeeper and my meager war pay, I know my mother must have spent several weeks saving up on butter and sugar to make this extra dessert.

"Wow," Vick whispers in awe as my mom sets the cake in front of him, his eyes glowing in the reflected light of the candle. The cake isn't very large, just enough for each of us to have a small piece, but the way Vick is staring at the cake, you would think it was fit for President Snow himself.

My throat constricts as I see my shy baby brother smiling at this humble cake as though it's the most beautiful thing in the world. All my life I strove to bring moments like this to my family, and watching Vick's sincere and disbelieving face causes my chest to tighten with a painful ache. After seeing the excess of the Capitol, it breaks my heart that something so small could make my family so happy.

I want to break down, grab Vick, hold him in my arms, and say sorry that his life has been so hard and so unfair. "Make a wish, baby brother," I say gruffly instead, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

Vick screws his eyes closed and says, "I wish every one in my family can have one birthday as perfect as this." I swallow painfully. Remembering my last birthday, I can't help but agree with him. Vick, not knowing the effect his words have on me, opens his eyes with a huge smile and blows out his one candle gustily.

The flame flickers out and I close my eyes, trying to forget. But I haven't had a drink all day and the memories come unbidden, no matter how hard I clench my jaw and tighten my fists.

Katniss was away that day, rallying the people in District 4 with Peeta. No one else even knew it was my birthday. I was bitter and upset and stupid after all the day's fighting so I snuck into the mess tent in the middle of the night and filched a bottle of the officer's white liquor. I didn't even bother hiding, but sat on one of the deserted mess hall tables in the dark and slowly drank the whole bottle, grimacing at the drink's burning, noxious taste.

There were only a few sips left in the bottle when one of the cooking girls walked in. Her eyes widened in her pale face when she saw me, and I remember thinking that I must look terrifying: drunk, my face still covered in dirt and stubble and maybe a little blood, and my fatigues only half buttoned. I didn't realize it then, but looking back, she was just a kid; she couldn't have been more than eighteen.

"It's my birthday," I said, giving her a small smile before swigging from the bottle. I'll never know why, but after that she slowly approached me. She refused a drink with a slight shake of her head, but she sat down next to me, our shoulders brushing against each other.

"Happy birthday," she whispered. I turned to look at her, so thin and pale with eyes like dark, liquid pools, and all of a sudden, I dropped the bottle of liquor and was kissing her. She tensed in surprise, her arms poised at my chest to push me away. But I was insistent, holding her cheek in one hand and splaying the other in her hair so she couldn't pull away.

And her skin was soft, so soft, and eventually she relaxed into me and curled her fingers hesitantly into the hair along the nape of my neck, timid but willing. I don't remember much about the girl, just her thin, pale face and wide, dark eyes, the way she trembled as I laid her on the table and pressed my body on top of hers, and, when we were done, the fleeting taste of a salty tear on her cheek when I gave her a final, thankful kiss.

And then all hell broke loose. Several massive explosions shuddering the tent, bursts of lights, men shouting, and the staccato sound of machine gun fire. Later I would learn that it was a single enemy hovercraft on a routine patrol that managed to stumble onto our camp. But in the moment, overwhelmed by the thundering noise and pounding guns, I assumed this would be a fight to the death.

At the sound of the first explosion, the girl had gasped and clung to my arms in fear.

"Stay here," I mumbled harshly, and then I left her, still lying on the table with her wide eyes and her dress pushed up around her stomach.

I still had all my equipment from the day's fighting, and I joined the assault on the Capitol hovercraft without a second thought for the girl trembling in the mess tent. Within a few minutes, the lone hovercraft, outgunned and surprised, succumbed to our attack in a huge fiery ball of burning metal.

The remains of the craft burned hot and crackling for several minutes, the Capitol crew inside still screaming. Many of the men danced and cheered around the flames, or sent potshots into the ship in hopes of hitting one of the enemy, but I just watched the flames, not really thinking, the fuzziness from the alcohol returning as my adrenaline leaked away.

Thom, an old friend from the mines in District 12 and a member of my platoon, came up to me and clapped me on the back.

"Where were you, Hawthorne? I'd thought you'd miss the party when I saw your empty bed," he said, his teeth white and gleaming against the black gunpowder and sweat smearing his face.

"I was drinking the officers' liquor in the mess," I said dully. And when he looked at me in surprise, I replied, with a flicker of a grin, "It's my birthday."

"Well I'll be damned, Hawthorne," he said with a whistle. He grinned and indicated the burning hovercraft, "Make a wish and blow out your candle!" I heard a long, anguished, dying cry from inside and couldn't quite smile in return. It was the worst birthday of my life.

I don't really remember any of the girls I was with during the war, but somehow the girl from the mess tent always stuck with me. Maybe because it was such a horrible birthday, maybe because she clung to me so desperately when the bombs came, or maybe because I knew I was her first, but even though we packed up all our gear and moved camp that night, every time I went to the mess, I looked for her. I never saw her again.

And Thom…I squeeze my eyes closed even harder, willing myself to forget. Not Thom, please don't let me think about Thom, I beg, my nails digging painfully into my palms as I try to drive the memories away.

"Gale, are you alright?" A soft hand on my shoulder accompanies the words and pulls me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes and see Madge looking up at me with concern. "Do you want your piece of cake?" she says hesitantly.

"What?" I say, my mind still seeing a smiling Thom, his face covered in soot and flickering orange from the flames.

"Cake. Do you want your piece of cake?" Madge says carefully.

But all I can see are her blue, blue eyes, so wide with worry and concern. And though the girl from the mess tent had dark eyes and hair, somehow I see her in Madge, in her concern and hesitancy and, somehow after all she's been through, her innocence. And I think of abandoning that girl, her face pale with fear and the soft sparkle of a tear on her cheek, and looking at Madge, all of a sudden I can't breath. And then I think of Thom with blood all over his face, so much blood, and I feel dizzy. And then all I can think is that I need a drink. Damn it, I need a drink.

"I have to go," I say abruptly.

"What?" Madge says softly, looking confused.

I tear myself away from her gaze. "I have to go. Right now, I have to go," I say quickly. I can feel small beads of sweat prickling along my brow. God, I need a drink.

"But Gale," I hear. I look up and see Vick looking absolutely crestfallen, sadness mixed with confusion. "You just got here. You can't have another meeting," he pleads.

It breaks my heart to see Vick so upset on his birthday. I see a small dot of chocolate frosting at the corner of his mouth, and he looks so small and endearing that as much as I want to leave, I know I can't abandon my brother, my family, like this.

I close my eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath. I'm Gale Hawthorne. I've been swallowing my emotions for years. I can do this.

My eyes fly open. "To get your present!" I say quickly, suddenly inspired. "I have to go get your present! I left it in the kitchen."

"Oh!" Vick breathes, his face melting back into a smile. Then he pauses. "Wait, I get _two_ presents?"

"Yep!" I say with fake cheerfulness before dashing into the kitchen and shutting the door. I drink down two quick glasses of water, breathing hard. I'm tempted to ransack the kitchen, rummage through every cabinet and drawer and crevice until I can find something alcoholic to take the edge off. But instead, I carefully set the glass in the sink and, with shaking hands, collect Vick's present from where I had hidden it on top of the fridge when I first arrived.

"All yours," I say, coming out of the kitchen and handing him the small white bundle. I watch as Vick carefully folds back the edges of the towel and try to steady my breathing. I spent days searching for his present, trawling the dark recesses of the seedy Underground black market as a way to distract myself from my painful army duties.

I'm rewarded for my effort when my entire family gasps as the present is revealed.

Nestled deep in the snow-white fabric of the towel is a small pile of perfectly plump ruby-red strawberries.

I feel the prickles of sweat on my brow cool and my hands stop shaking as I take in everyone's expressions. I can breath again.

"Where in the world did you get fresh fruit?" Madge asks breathily, breaking the silence. Of course she is referring to the high cost of fresh food in the underground D13. The district grows semi-tasteless produce in hydroponic greenhouses, but the goods are only available for a high price after the politicians and elite get first pick. Real strawberries, grown in rich soil and sunlight are practically unheard of, and certainly not affordable for the likes of us. Unless you know how to work the black market.

Madge's wide eyes come up to meet mine. In that moment, I remember how much Madge used to love strawberries back home, and I feel strangely glad that I found strawberries for Vick and not some other fruit.

With a shrug and, because Madge looks so serious, the ghost of a wink I answer, "I have my ways."

"Wow, Gale," Vick says. He looks up. "Here, everyone can have one!" he adds hastily, as though afraid that strawberries are a mirage that will disappear if he looks at them for too long.

The white towel is passed around almost reverently, and everyone carefully selects one of the crimson berries. The kids eat their berries quickly, dripping red juice along their fingers and smacking their lips in enjoyment. I can't help but feel pleased by their antics.

But then I catch sight of Madge. She lifts her strawberry decadently, smelling it slightly in anticipation. I pause, my strawberry already finished in one gulp, to watch her. She closes her eyes, and her small white teeth break through the fleshy exterior of the berry. I swallow, imagining the sweet juice bursting from the berry and spreading along her tongue.

"Mmm," she murmurs, almost to herself. She looks like she's…in ecstasy. Madge licks a small drop of juice off the side of her mouth, her small, pink tongue darting out quickly and capturing the bright red drop. My throat goes suddenly dry.

She opens her mouth to eat the rest of the strawberry, but she must sense me looking at her because her eyes dart towards me. I raise my eyebrows and smirk, letting her know that I had just witnessed her sensual enjoyment of the strawberry. Madge has the good grace to blush and look down, causing me to grin. She smiles and looks up at me, sucking lightly on her thumb to catch any wayward juice.

Just then, I feel timid arms circle my waist and little fists curling at my sides. I look down to see Vick's dark curls as he presses his face into my side. "Thank you for the best birthday present ever, Gale," he whispers.

"What? The strawberries," I answer in surprise. I run a hand through Vick's hair, feeling inexplicably tender towards my little brother. "You know it's no big deal. I would do anything for you."

Vick looks up and grins. "No, not the strawberries." He rolls his eyes like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I meant that you're here!" My mouth falls open in surprise, and he gives me a quick squeeze and lets me go before I can even formulate a reply.

"It's not over yet," Madge says, surprising us all. "I still haven't given you my gift, Vick."

"What?" Vick cries, looking up, startled. "_Another _gift?"

"Yep," Madge says, walking over to her bag and lifting out a small plastic contraption. "My father gave it to me when we left District 12."

Vick whips his head back to me in a panic. "I can't take something from your dad, Madge!" he says desperately, looking at me for confirmation.

Madge smiles. "It's not for you to take. Just for you to listen."

She clicks in a plastic cartridge and turns with a few knobs. All of a sudden, the sound of folk music fills the room, getting louder as she turns one of the dials on the machine. The jaunty notes sound distantly familiar, but I can't quite place them. There is a long pause while we all listen.

"It's the Harvest Festival music!" my mom says in sudden realization. And then it hits me like the long-forgotten memory it is. The lively fiddles, bright flutes, and merry clapping are all part of traditional District 12 celebrations. "I haven't heard this music in years," my mother sighs.

I close my eyes and listen to the music. The energetic notes send me years back to memories of the Harvest Festival. It was the only day of the year when we truly had something to celebrate, and the whole district would come out to enjoy the fun. As though from far away I see the ghosts of long-dead friends dancing in the town square, laughing by the fires, sharing a drink, and generally enjoying the short twilight reprieve from the harshness of our day-to-day reality. The Capitol always provided everyone with a little extra food during the Harvest Festival, and it was the only day when no one went hungry in Distrcit 12.

"Come on," Madge says, breaking me out of my reverie. "You have to dance with me!" She grabs a stunned Vick's hand and pulls him to the middle of the room. Madge's face is alight with joy and her eyes glint with mischievousness as she curtsies before Vick in the traditional D12 way. I'm surprised when Vick's face cracks into a huge grin and he bows before Madge. They join hands and start dancing in a lively circle. Their dancing reminds me so much of the joy and lightness of the Harvest Festival, and it's as though they're dredging up the ashes of a departed time, of a culture that died long ago, and celebrating that way of life as though it were never destroyed.

"Me too!" Posy cries, grabbing Rory's hand. She is too young to know any of the steps to the dance, but the music and Madge's bright laugh are infectious, and I can't blame her for joining in the fun.

Suddenly I feel a tug on my own hand and look up in surprise to see my mother pulling me towards the center of the room. Her eyes are glowing with laughter that I haven't seen since my father was alive. She looks years younger.

I can't help but grin back at her, more from surprise than anything else, but suddenly I feel a little younger myself, and a little reckless. I relish the feeling, which I haven't experienced since my days in the woods with Katniss.

I spin my mother around quickly, causing her to laugh and clutch my arms for support. We join the dance, not as enthusiastically as the other kids, but with a shadow of those carefree times before the war started. In this moment there is no war, no blood, no death, no fear, no hunger, no anger, only the memory of a long-ago, happier time. Between claps and kicks and careful spins with my mother, I look around at my siblings. Vick is smiling widely as Madge expertly leads him through the dance. Rory and Posy aren't even bothering to get the moves right, laughing and twirling and clapping, just enjoying the moment. Madge looks radiant, her shiny blond hair flying out behind her as she spins around with Vick.

"Let me dance with the birthday boy!" my mom calls as she drops my hands and pulls Vick into a hug.

"Mom," he mutters, with a red face and embarrassed grin. He looks away from Madge as though he can never live it down.

I surprise myself when I laugh out loud at Vick's adorably bashful expression. Rory dances by and tugs at Vick's hair, Posy traipsing after him, her face pink from all her twirling. Mom ignores Vick's protests and insistently tugs on his arms. There is no sign of fear or hunger or unhappiness in their faces.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, a bubbling, beautiful, impossible joy wells up within me, and without thinking, I grab a smiling Madge by the waist and lift her in the air. She gasps in surprise and clutches my arms when I lift her, but she starts laughing as I spin around. For the first time I notice Madge's eyes; they're a clear, joyful blue, wide and light with laughter.

The song comes to an end, and I set Madge down. We both stumble slightly with dizziness, and I keep a hold on her hips to steady us both. We're both breathless, and her cheeks are tinged with pink. I raise a hand to lightly push a few strands of hair away from her face. Her fingers curl on my arms, and I run my fingers along the strands of hair with a feather touch, wondering how I never noticed blond hair could be so pretty.

I don't know how to express how grateful I am for this wonderful moment of happiness and togetherness she has given my family. This moment of blissful forgetfulness she has given me. "Thank you," I say simply. I look into Madge's eyes and hope she understands.

"You're welcome," she says solemnly, and I know she does.

But then a rough pounding at the door startles us both, and Madge looks up at me curiously, biting her lip.

And then my mom says the fateful words: "Oh, that must be the Everdeens."

My blood runs cold and my heart starts pounding. I abruptly look away from Madge and drop my arms. I clench my jaw as hard as I can and harden my eyes. I don't want to see the Everdeens. I don't want to see Katniss. I barely notice when Madge worriedly withdraws her hands and shoots me a nervous look. I'm too busy shutting down my emotions, putting up my defenses, fighting, wrestling, _battling_ my anger. No. No. Not Katniss. Not now when I had finally been happy. Finally free. My hands start shaking again.

As if in slow motion my mother walks towards the door. It opens. A hug, laughter, kisses. Mrs. E and Prim walk in, smiling, talking, and for a moment I allow myself to hope.

But then I see them. Holding hands, grinning, Katniss leaning into Peeta. And Peeta, that ass Peeta Mellark, holding out a massive white box to Vick. He opens it, and it's a cake. A huge, beautiful cake that puts my mother's to shame. There's even a hand-painted forest scene on top. Tigers and lynxes and trees and flowers, and it's perfect. And I hate Peeta Mellark for _always_ being so damn perfect and _nice_ and unspoiled through two Hunger Games and through the war and somehow always able to get the right gift and somehow able to get the girl too.

And I'm shaking so hard now, and I think I might crack a tooth I'm clenching so hard. I can't be here, I don't want to be here, and my hands are tightened into two hard fists, and I want to wring his neck for being so damn perfect.

And then Katniss is turning to look at me, and I know in a second we'll lock eyes and she'll be able to read me like a book. And for some reason I can't turn away even though I know what will happen. But then there's a soft hand slipped into mine, tugging me into the kitchen. And as the kitchen door slams shut I feel as though I've been pulled up, soaking and panting, from drowning and, after what was only a moment but what seemed like years, I can finally breath again.

Part II

I don't think Gale has even noticed that I pulled him into the kitchen. I can't really say why I did it. He just looked so _angry_. And horrified. Like he wanted to turn and run but also like he wanted to kill someone.

I don't really know what to say so I just watch him, staring at the counter and breathing hard, his hands balled into fists. I feel angry. Because even though Katniss is my best friend, I am mad at her. Because Gale loves her and she captivates him, and he can't look at any other girl because, to him, she is the only girl in the world.

And then I feel sad because I know that's not true. Gale has been with plenty of girls, and even though I know he doesn't care for them, I know he wants them. He looks at Katniss with undying love, and he looks at other girls, even trashy barroom floozies, for a lay, but why, _why_ doesn't he ever look at me?

And then I feel pathetic. Because I want him to look at me. To love me. Because I am sad and alone and I've been in love with stupid Gale Hawthorne for half my life.

The silence stretches out, and I just want Gale to notice me, to see that it was me that saved him from having to face Katniss. But I don't really know what to say because I don't want to say her name and remind him that she's in the next room. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.

"Vick really loved your gift," I say hesitantly.

"What?" He mutters, his eyes clearing for a second. "Your gift was much better," he adds, waving his hand dismissively, his eyes still averted.

"Thanks," I say, feeling oddly touched like the sucker I am. A pause. "Are you ok?"

Gale finally looks at me. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says. He looks back down, studying his hands. "She just makes me so mad, you know." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Then why do you love her?" I say, not trying to mask the anger bubbling behind my words. Gale looks at me again, surprised at my audacity, but I don't back down. "Why do you love someone who makes you so angry all the time?"

Gale's mouth falls open in shock and his jaw is working like he can't quite formulate a response. "Because, because she _gets_ me," he splutters inadequately. "Because she knows me better than anyone, and we're the same…"

"That's absurd," I cut him off coldly. I'm so mad I could spit. "Does she know about your drinking?"

"Madge!" Gale whispers, looking towards the door to see if anyone overheard what I said. "Of course not," he says in a low voice, stepping closer to me and gripping my arm angrily. "It's nothing, just something I do to help…deal with things. No one needs to know."

"Well I know!" I answer, wishing desperately that he would just _see_ that Katniss isn't some kind of goddess. "And I get it. Katniss hasn't fought in the war; she's just a figurehead and a strategist. No one would put her in any real danger! But I get it; I've seen things too, just like you. I was there when District 12 was destroyed. I know how it feels to lose people in the war. I know what it's like to be alone, to suffer alone. And Katniss will never understand because she hasn't lost anyone: not Peeta, not her family, not anyone!"

I whisper my entire speech, but even I can hear the anger and bitterness crackling in my words, scratching my throat. I stop myself, breathing hard.

Gale is looking at me with surprise and confusion. As though he's realized something for the first time—probably like how I don't worship Katniss like he does. I push him away angrily and turn towards the sink.

"Madge-" he starts. But then he pauses. I guess he doesn't know what to say.

"The two of us, it's just the way it's meant to be," he says finally, desperately, like he's trying to convince me. "In the woods, you know, we were such good partners…"

"The woods?" I say wearily, bitterly, so tired of loving Gale, tired of not being loved in return. "The woods were burnt to the ground three years ago, Gale. Ever since Katniss entered the Games, things changed. That world is long gone."

Gale is silent, and I wish that it were because he's thinking about what I've said, but I know he's only trying to articulate his love for Katniss.

He surprises me when he says, "Why do you care so much?"

I meet his eyes, and he genuinely looks like he wants to know.

I want to shake him. Because I love you, you idiot! I scream in my head. But instead I say, "Because it's killing you. She's killing you." And what I really mean is that it's killing me.

Gale's eyes widen at my answer, but I never get to hear his response because just then the door swings open, and in walks Katniss.

"Katniss!" I say, turning from Gale and pulling her into a hug. And I surprise myself because there is no anger in my voice. Because, in the end, she is my friend and I am genuinely glad to see her and because she never let Gale think she loved him in return. Over her shoulder I can see Gale, and he's tensed up again, his jaw clamped shut and his hands shaking, and he's looking away from the two of us, his face a hard mass of confusion.

And I can't bear to look at the conflict in his eyes so I turn to Katniss, clutching her hands and say with real feeling, "I wish I could stay and catch up, but I actually have to go."

Katniss frowns, her forehead wrinkling in dismay and disbelief.

I direct my words to her, but I look at Gale: "I have a date. With Mazer Preston."

Gale's eyes fly to mine. And though I know he did it out of surprise and not out of jealousy, I still feel a savage triumph. Because though he kills me with his longing for Katniss, I will never let him know it. And because for once, even though it is with the wrong man, I won't be alone.

"Oh! Right," Katniss says, still uncomfortable with the idea of romance even after all of these years. "Right," she says again, her face mildly apprehensive. "We'll talk later. Have fun."

"I will," I say firmly, turning from Gale and marching from the room.

I pause at the kitchen door when I hear Gale murmur "Hey, Catnip," in a sheepish, hoarse whisper.

I don't want to hear any more. I wrench open the door, ignoring the calls of surprise and offers of cake from the kids and Peeta, and leave the house. I don't look back.

I couldn't even if I wanted to because my vision is blurred by tears.

Part III. 4 am.

"Girl, girl, I need a girl," I sing in a low voice as I trip along the deep underground bar scene. I'm pleasantly inebriated, my mind buzzing and free, alcohol sloshing occasionally out of the bottle I'm holding as I make my way down the dimly lit corridor.

I had spent the last several hours getting completely drunk in a bar just up the hallway. I had run into a few retired rebel soldiers, and they bought me drinks and made fun of the Capitol and studiously avoided mentioning anything unsavory about the war. We even sang a few bawdy songs that are popular on the front lines together.

And when I finally felt that familiar buzzing sensation, that lightness and freedom from anger and pain, I got up and left, telling them that I still needed the one thing that would make the night, and my forgetfulness, complete. A girl. Someone soft and supple, in whom I could lose myself completely.

And as I stumble along, taking intermittent sips from my bottle of whiskey, I suddenly stop in front of the sign for The Black Heart.

I know Madge works here, and I don't want to see Madge. But I also know that there are girls here. I can't remember her name or what she looked like, but I know I picked up a girl here not long ago. Maybe I could find her again.

But then there's Madge…and then I remember with a shake of my head that Madge cannot possibly be working tonight because she is on a date with Mazer _bloody_ Preston. I don't know why, but the thought of Madge dating that Preston jerk makes me angry again, and I quickly push the thought away because I've been working all night to repress my anger, and I will not ruin it now.

I force myself to stop thinking and shoulder my way into the bar. Right into-

"Madge?"

"Gale?"

Shit.

Two voices at once: "What are you doing here?"

I recover first: "I thought you had a _date_."

Her voice is acid: "I thought you were talking with _Catnip_."

I scrunch my eyes closed and take a long pull from the bottle of whiskey. I open my eyes, and she's still there. Double shit.

Finally: "My date finished hours ago. Then I had to come here and work a shift."

Suddenly I feel weightless again, safe in the knowledge that she didn't sleep with that air force tool. I throw her a big grin.

"So," foot tapping. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh," I say. I had forgotten she had asked me that question. I scan the room surreptitiously for girls. There are a few not far away, twittering and giggling around a table of off-duty rebel soldiers. I look uneasily at Madge. "Um-"

I'm saved the trouble of answering when one of the soldiers lurches over to Madge. His green military jacket is unbuttoned and his hat is askew. "I thought you were getting us drinks, baby," he slurs, touching her bare arm familiarly.

"Hey!" I say, an inexplicable spurt of hot, bitter anger burning in my stomach. "We're talking here."

The soldier turns to me as though seeing me for the first time. "Easy, man," he laughs sloppily. "There's enough of Margie for everyone. Right, Margie?" he says languidly, reaching down and squeezing Madge's thigh. Madge winces.

"Hey!" I say again, pushing the guy off Madge so hard that he stumbles back a few steps.

"Gale!" she says in surprise, reaching back to help the man up. "He's one of our best customers."

"Watch it, buddy," the man growls, shoving Madge aside and advancing towards me.

"Or what?" I say, my voice silky and my eyes glittering. I throw my bottle of whiskey to the side and slowly roll up my sleeves. I open and close my fists lightly, my eyes never leaving his, almost licking my lips with anticipation. A fistfight is even better than a girl to work out disappointment, and this snot-nosed bastard has it coming.

The soldier lunges at me, but I dodge him easily. I may be drunk, but he's way drunker. He falls to the ground as soon as I pound the back of his neck with my fist. But he's a big guy, and he knocks my legs out from under me.

And then it's war. Punching, shoving, kicking, the satisfying crunch as my fist connects with his face, the salty, metallic taste of blood when he punches me right back. My jaw aches and my head is pounding, but I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and I can hear my heart thundering in my ears. And it's glorious. I haven't felt this kind of release in weeks, and I work out all of my anger and frustration and bitterness in the pounding, grunting, sweaty struggle. It's almost as good as strafing machine gun fire ruthlessly through the enemy lines or watching a building burn that just moments before was swarming with hostile forces.

And then I have the upper hand, and I straddle the bastard and punch him in the jaw again and again and again and again, and I can see spurts of blood flying with each hit and I can feel his teeth splintering under my fists and I can hear him groaning and begging.

And suddenly I feel a small hand gripping my shoulder, and I turn to look into her eyes, and then it's Madge begging. Begging me to stop and let the poor guy go. There are tears pooling in her eyes, and she's tugging at my arm. Please, please, just get up, just let him go. Damn it, Gale, just let it go.

I turn to take one last look at the soldier. But lying limp on the ground, his face bloodied and broken, he suddenly doesn't look like the enemy. In his rebel uniform and his dark hair and his face covered in blood he looks…like Thom.

Shit! I back up in surprise, struggling, scrabbling away. All I can see is Thom. Disfigured, mutilated, _bloody_ Thom. Shit, shit, shit, not Thom. Please, not Thom.

But Madge's hands are insistent, pulling me away. Her voice soothing and panicked at the same time. And she's hauling, dragging, pleading with me to leave.

And as the door of the bar slams shut behind us, I can't help thinking that this is the second time tonight that Madge Undersee has saved me from drowning.

Part IV

I don't know what to do. So I just drag him along behind me as he shakes his head and whispers, his eyes wide and unseeing, "Thom, Thom, damn it, not Thom."

And I murmur as calmly as I can, trying to hide the panic in my voice, not knowing what I'm saying, "It wasn't Thom. He'll be fine. Don't worry. He's fine. It wasn't Thom."

I don't know where to go. I don't know where he lives, and I can't take him to his mother's house.

So I bring him home with me.

I force him to sit on the bed, and I kneel on the floor at his feet like I have no dignity at all, and I help him unlace his boots and pull off his socks. And when I stand up, he's already taking off his shirt, just pulling it over his head to reveal his beautiful, mutilated back and his torso taut with muscle and peppered with scars and burns. And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

But when he looks down at the shirt he's holding, he sees the blood smeared across his knuckles and flecked along his fingers, and he starts to tremble all over again.

I don't know what to do, so I sit on the bed and hold him. And he clings to me, his arms wrapping around me, his face buried in my neck. I'm overwhelmed by his presence, his _maleness_. The way his skin burns with heat, the way his body curves over mine, the way his hands curl at my back, desperately fisting the fabric of my dress, the damp curls of hair at the base of his neck where I run my fingers lightly, caressing, murmuring, soothing, hoping that I can somehow absorb all of the pain, the anguish that radiates off of his body in waves.

I run my hands along his face, his neck, his back, desperate to calm him. And when he starts speaking, I want to close my eyes in horror; I want to run away and be sick, but I keep rocking back and forth, stroking his hair as he clutches me and babbles: "Shit, they didn't even kill him. They wouldn't let him die. They peeled information off his bones, plied it from him with his toenails. We came for him, and I could hear him screaming. God, those screams. And then they killed him, right when we got there. Just for spite. Just _broke_ him and…killed him…and the blood, the blood…"

And as his words become incoherent, I realize with a sudden, terrible awareness that I can feel a new wetness where his face meets my neck. And all I can do is clutch him close, close, closer, heat and muscle and sweat, and I feel his body shake, not with the trembling of his anger, but with the desperation of his sobs.

A/N: Well, the people have spoken, and I went for the longer chapter…though I will say, I found it kind of hard to write. I know it's a bit dark, but I feel as though the books are full of dark themes…I mean, kids slaughtering each other for public entertainment, Haymitch's drunkenness, morphling addiction, Snow smelling like _blood_…I dunno, this seemed to fit in with all of that. Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** A big thanks to my amazing reviewers **KenoshaChick, IsForWinners, hollah, scoobygal, **and **DemigodWiththeBread**. I love you all! And of course to the lovely but anonymous **Eliza**: I think you might like Gale in this chapter, and I did a happy dance when I read your review!

Anyways, here it is…Chapter 5.

Part I

I wake up in the morning sore and uncomfortable and anxious. I twist out of the thin, sweaty sheet and turn quickly to the bed. I hear the shower running and see the mussed pillows and turned down linen, and I realize with a sudden wonderful and nerve-wracking clarity that Gale Hawthorne slept the night in my bed. Capable, beautiful, broken Gale Hawthorne could have been with any woman in the world last night, but somehow, miraculously, factors combined and stars aligned and he ended up with me.

And even though I slept on the floor and he slept in the bed, I feel warm and nervous and tingly at the thought. Because I know things can never be the same between us. Not after he clung to me last night. Not after he told me about Thom.

Not after he pressed his body to mine and whispered his fears and his secrets in my ear, as intimate as a lover.

With shaking hands and flushed cheeks I make the bed, taking a shameful second to bury my face in his pillow. It's still slightly damp with sweat, and it smells like a man. And I feel a pleasant shiver quiver through me when I realize that it is my pillow that smells like a man. Me. Madge Undersee, whom men love to touch in a bar but not take out to dinner or back to their place. Madge Undersee, who always is alone.

I change hurriedly, wanting to be ready before Gale emerges from the shower. I brush my hair carefully and put on a light dress, alternating between wishing that I had the money to fix my ventilation system so that it wouldn't be so hot and being grateful for the heat so I have an excuse for my cheeks to be so flushed.

The shower turns off as I finish changing, and I slip out of the room before Gale appears. Feeling nervous and shy and a thrill of anticipation I turn on the stove and pull out a small bag of porridge so I can start making breakfast.

I've just opened the bag when I hear the bedroom door open and soft footfalls in the hallway. They pause abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen, as though Gale is surprised to see me here. I'm too giddy to turn around.

"Hey," he says, his voice mild surprise and a question.

"Hey," I turn around and can't help but smile. His shirt is clean and fitted and darkened in a few places by drips from his still-wet hair. His hand runs along his jaw, lightly dusted with a shadow of stubble, the beginnings of a bruise blossoming along his cheekbone. With his muscles and too-long hair falling in his eyes and his hawkish features, he looks like perfection.

"So…what happened last night?"

My stomach clenches, and I realize that while I had been looking at Gale to admire him, he had been looking at me for answers. And now I really look at him and see only his expression, a mixture of nervousness and confusion. Like he's afraid of what I might say.

And I feel my heart crack just a little because he doesn't remember.

Not the way I held him, his body wracked with tortuous sobs, his lean torso and back radiating fire and curled in anguish. Not the way I rocked him back and forth and rubbed my hand along the curve of his spine while he held me, so tightly, until his cries dwindled to dry sobs to soft gasps to the gentle breaths of sleep. Not the way I tenderly cradled his head as I lowered it to the pillow or the way I watched him relaxed in sleep, sweeping a few strands of sweaty black hair from his forehead, his fingers clutching the sheets lightly, his face smoothed into boyish peacefulness and his bare chest rising and falling quietly.

Not the way I finally tore myself away from staring at his tortured beauty and scarred chest and went to the bathroom for a wet rag. Not the way I sat down on the bed again and slowly wiped the sweat and traces of tears from his face. The way I painstakingly scrubbed the blood from his knuckles and between his fingers and in the crevasses of his nails until his hands were long and lean and clean and capable, just like they used to be when he would hand me a bag of strawberries years ago. Not the way I stooped down to pick up his dirty socks and shirt off the floor and the way I washed them in the sink, rubbing my hands red and raw until all the blood had swirled down the drain in pinkish curls. Not the way I carefully hung his clothes to dry before finally allowing myself to take a shower and fall asleep, curled up on the floor with nothing but a sheet and my arm for a pillow because I wanted him in my bed.

And as I look at Gale and feel my heart crack, I want to be angry with him. To scream at him for not remembering, for not realizing that I love him so much I ache with it. But I can't be angry. I can't yell at him because how can I be angry with him for not knowing I love him when I try so hard to hide it from him, when I'm so ashamed and afraid that I can barely admit it to myself.

And the whole time I will him, _beg_ him in my mind, to remember. Damn it, just remember. But he just looks at me nervously, and I wish that he didn't look so afraid that I might say we slept together.

"You got into a fight," I say finally.

He exhales loudly in relief, and I can see his shoulders noticeably relax. "A fight-?" he says with half a grin, a question lingering in his voice.

"Yeah, a fight," I say, remembering with a shudder the Gale of last night, whose eyes were the grey of gun metal and glittering in the dim light of the bar. Whose voice went hard and silky and dangerous all at the same time as he rolled up his sleeves and prepared to destroy. "At the Black Heart," I add, turning back to the stove because I can't look at him anymore. I carefully measure out a single portion of porridge because I can only afford to make one bowl a day. And because even though my stomach twists with hunger, and even though he doesn't remember, I'm still going to make breakfast and give Gale my share.

"Oh," Gale says at my words, and I can hear the confusion turn to understanding in his voice. "And you brought me here after," he says, and it's not a question. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," I say. If only you knew, I think.

A pause. "Did I win?"

I can't help the small, wry smile that twists my lips painfully, bitterly. "Yeah, you won," I say, stirring the porridge. And I feel the same way I did all those years ago when I realized that no one told him that I brought him morphling when he was dying in the middle of the night. Like I had declared my love for him, but he just didn't hear the words.

We stand in silence while I turn off the stove and scrape the porridge into a bowl. I offer him the bowl, thinking that I'll be going hungry today, but surprisingly he refuses. Maybe he doesn't think I can cook. I'm so glad for the meal that I don't mind.

I sit down at the table to eat. He hesitates for a brief second before pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. I take several steady, silent bites.

"Madge," he says finally. And his next words are probably the last I ever imagined him saying. "Why are you so poor?"

I look at him in surprise, my mouth open and a spoonful of porridge stopped halfway to my mouth. He backpedals quickly. "I mean, you obviously make good money at the ba-, at your job. Where does it all go?"

And for the first time in a long time I look at my surroundings, the tiny kitchen, the cracked countertops, the broken fan, and I feel ashamed. He must remember me from District 12, all new dresses and fresh strawberries and disposable income.

And then I tell him my secret. The one that I haven't even told his mother because I'm afraid that if the words pass my lips, it will disappear like the dream it is.

"School," I say. "I use all the money to pay for school." And I don't know why, but I look up at him for approval. When he doesn't answer, I look down at my porridge and babble, tripping over myself to explain. "It's training for radiation clean up. So when the war's over we can clear the city above ground. Dispose everything. Make the outside habitable again. It'll take years and planning and manpower, but we can rebuild up there. We can-"

"Madge," he says. And I look up at him fearfully. Scared that he'll think I'm foolish or delusional or overreaching my place. "That's amazing," he breathes out, and his eyes are bright as stars.

"What?" I say, and I can't help the hope that hitches with the breath in my throat.

"That's amazing," he repeats, a little louder this time. And then his voice hardens: "I'm glad you're not going to be in that bar forever."

I look down, blushing. "Yeah well, I wanted to study architecture because there'll be so much rebuilding after the war. But I couldn't afford it."

"Either way, it shows a lot of foresight," he says, and I glow with his praise.

"It's not that clever," I say, self-conscious under his gaze. "I guess I learned a little about foresight once the war started. When we fled District 12, my dad and I tried to help the rebellion. Obviously I couldn't fight so I helped organize the makeshift hospitals in District 11. Allocating bandages and bedding and painkillers." I shrug. "I don't know. I guess it taught me about prioritizing and planning ahead. Preparing for the worst."

Gale nods thoughtfully, but doesn't answer. I can feel his eyes on me though, studying me. I take a few more silent bites of porridge, a little embarrassed that I had said so much. I hadn't meant to sound boastful or anything; I just wanted to explain how I'm willing to live like this so I can live better in the future. To explain why the way I live isn't shameful.

"You're not what I expected," he says at last. "Back in District 12, I mean. I never imagined you'd be this way."

"Well, I wasn't this way in District 12," I answer, with a wry grin. Not that life had been easy back then. I had to take care of my ill mother, and I didn't have many friends. But I had security. And a family. I feel an unexpected longing for those days, when my greatest worry was getting home on time to give mom her morphling and my greatest joy was seeing Gale at my backdoor. "God, I was so different back then," I say with feeling. I shrug, not wanting to sound dramatic. "I guess the war and losing my parents, it changed me," and as I say the words I look up into Gale's fathomless grey eyes.

Something in his eyes dilates, and darkens. "It changed me too," he says. I always think of Gale as a survivor and a fighter, but at his words I realize with a start that he wasn't always this way. He lost his father years ago, and the war has certainly changed him in ways I can barely understand.

And I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.

And maybe he thinks he said too much, because he doesn't say anything either. And we both sit, lost in our memories, the silence spreading out like gentle wisps of smoke, sinuous and ethereal and sad.

But maybe I was the only one lost in memories, because then Gale asks me a question. One that in a million years I never would have even dreamed he would ask:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

"What?" I say, confused at the words, so out of context, and I shake my head trying to blink away my memories and focus on Gale.

"The Mockingjay Ball," he repeats, and I immediately think of the annual fundraiser for the troops. All the District's heavy hitters come out to fete the rebels and play politics with each other. It's all dazzling gowns and crisp uniforms, status and money glittering in the women's jewels and flashing in the men's smiles. All whispered favors over drinks and smiles like oil slicks and the brush of a hand on a bare back during the dance. But of course all of the officers have to go, considering the fundraiser is for them. And I look up at Gale feeling cold and hot and surreal all at the same time, and I can hear the blood rushing through my ears as I listen to his voice, which sounds as though it's coming from far away. "Madge, will you go with me?"

Part II

When my eyes crack open in the morning, the first thing I can think is that it's hot. The kind of heat that is suffocating and dry and relentless, that prickles the skin and slows movements and makes it hard to breathe.

I feel the telltale pounding of a hangover, but somehow my head feels _clear_. Light. And though my muscles ache with soreness, my body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time.

The next thing I notice is that I'm not in my bed. The sheets are far too white; they're crisp and clean and smell good. Like a girl.

I run a hand through my hair in confusion. I don't remember any girl from last night, and I certainly can't think of a single reason why I would spend the whole night at any girl's place. I turn my head, looking for said girl. But all I see is the expanse of white sheet and the two modest pillows. I rub a hand over my aching jaw and sit up, feeling confused and disoriented. I scrunch my eyes, but all I can remember from last night is drinking with some ex-soldiers. There weren't even any girls there.

I take stock of my surroundings. The room is small with only a tiny vanity table and mirror in the corner. There are two doors, one I assume leading to the bathroom and the other to the rest of the house. An air purifier wheezes brokenly in the corner, and I realize why the room is so hot. The floor is well swept and there is no clutter. There's even a makeshift clothesline between two hooks. I raise my eyebrows when I see my shirt and socks from last night hanging clean and dry on the line. Whoever owns this place is definitely poor, but very clean. Must take pride in her things.

Speaking of which, where is she?

My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I take that as my cue to ignore my mysterious surroundings for the moment in favor of swinging my legs over the side of the bed and making my way to the bathroom. It's not like it's the first time I've gotten blackout drunk.

I grab my shirt off the clothesline before opening the first door. It leads down a short, carpeted hallway, and I can see a small kitchen a few feet away. I close the door and step towards the other one, which I assume leads to the bathroom, nearly tripping to avoid a mound on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I grind out a swear word, reaching to grab my stubbed toe. I look down at the offending object that I so narrowly missed. Long legs twisted in a white sheet, a nearly non-existent pair of shell pink shorts, a few inches of flat, pale stomach, a matching pink camisole, and long, blond curls covering a familiar face.

"Shit," I breathe out. Madge Undersee is sleeping on the floor.

Literally, on the floor. Nothing but a threadbare rug between her and the hard concrete. And because it's so hot in here, she's practically naked. Her skin is slightly flushed, and a very fine sheen of sweat has gathered on her hairline and along her chest.

She looks delicious.

"Shit, shit, shit!" I groan, grabbing my hair. What have I done? I growl in frustration, wishing desperately that I could remember something useful from last night. What am I doing waking up in the morning in the same room with a flushed, sleeping, half-naked Madge Undersee?

And then I pause. _Half_-naked Madge Undersee. That means…I look down. My pants are still on. We weren't even sleeping in the bed together. I frown, trying to think around my pounding head. Maybe there is a perfectly logical explanation.

An explanation that involves me spending the night in Madge's bed. With no shirt. With her _washing _my shirt.

The explanation may end up being logical, but it sure as hell can't be good.

"Shit," I say again, taking one last look at Madge before stalking into the bathroom.

I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, even more confused. I had come out from the steaming shower and looked in the mirror the first time this morning, not even noticing the water dripping from my hair onto my chest because I was so horrified by the angry cut along my cheekbone and the purplish bruise mottling my jaw. And when I lifted my hand to touch the bruise, I saw that my knuckles were chafed raw. Did Madge hit me last night? Did I punch…a wall?

And why wasn't I wearing a shirt? I can't explain it, but I feel a sudden wave of self-consciousness at the thought that Madge saw all the scars marring my back and chest, ugly reminders of whippings, shrapnel, and even a knife fight.

I pull my shirt back on to find that it smells like Madge's soap. Clean and soft and lightly flowery. And if I'm being honest, it's altogether maddening because it smells so good.

And when I walk out of the bathroom, I see that Madge is no longer on the floor. Her sheet has disappeared, and the bed is made, the wrinkles smoothed out so it looks like I'd never even been there.

I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall, dread coiling in my stomach like a snake. I stop at the entrance of the kitchen in surprise. Madge is standing at the stove looking like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, wearing a thin blue dress with her hair pulled back and opening a small bag…of porridge?

"Hey," I say, and I cringe at how my voice hesitates.

"Hey," she says, turning around. And then she smiles at me. A wide, glowing, happy smile. And I feel my stomach plummet because girls only smile at me like that after I've-, after we've-. Well, after.

"So…what happened last night?" I say, my voice cracking a little.

Madge's face freezes and her eyes kind of narrow at me and I think maybe she's upset that I can't remember. And she just stands there for a few seconds without moving, kind of studying me, and I feel more and more uncomfortable because I don't know what she's thinking or what she might say.

"You got in a fight," she says finally, and I can't help but relax. A fight. That explains the bruises and the aching jaw, and when she tells me that it happened at the Black Heart I realize how I ended up at her house.

But then she looks away from me and her shoulders are kind of hunched up, like she's angry or maybe hiding something. I study her for a second and notice that she's measuring the porridge really carefully. And when I take in her tiny kitchen and meticulously organized shelf, I think that maybe she's just hunched up because she doesn't want me to know that she can only afford to make one bowl of porridge in the morning.

I don't know why she'd feel that way considering I come from the Seam and understand the concept of rationing. Maybe it's because even though she's poor now, she still thinks like the mayor's daughter. So I don't say anything about it, but I let her eat the bowl of porridge even though my stomach knots with hunger at the smell.

And we're pretty much silent as she eats, which is kind of the way I like it. I'm not really into talking much, more into observing. And from what I can tell, Madge seems kind of withdrawn as she eats, and I can feel that she's sad.

Maybe it's because I want to know why she's sad, or maybe just because I'm curious, but I ask her why she's so poor. And I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden she's telling me about how she's going to school, and I can tell it's really important to her because her cheeks flush and her hands twist in her lap and her eyes light up when I tell her that what she's doing is amazing.

And it is amazing. I've spent the last three years of my life thinking only of vengeance and destruction and anger while Madge has been distributing hospital beds and planning for the future and thinking of the rebuilding that will come after this war is over.

And when she tells me that the war has changed her and losing her parents has changed her, I don't know, I feel something kind of stir inside me. It feels kind of strange and sad, but then…kind of not sad. Like I've finally found someone who understands what I've been through.

Then I just look at Madge. Her eyes are distant and kind of misty, and I can tell she's thinking about the past. And even though I know she's hurting, I can't help but notice that her eyes are really blue and her hands are really delicate, and that strange feeling kind of builds in my chest.

And suddenly I realize that I had just talked about the war and the past for the first time without the horrible memories, without feeling angry. In fact, it felt kind of cathartic. And that strange feeling expands and bubbles and grows inside me, and then I suddenly understand that the feeling is happy and excited and maybe it's because I _like_ Madge.

I like Madge. I roll the thought around in my head, and I can barely grasp it because I haven't felt this way in so long. Almost like I'm hopeful. And I want to cling to this feeling, hold on to it with every fiber of my being because my chest doesn't ache and heart doesn't hurt and my head feels clear.

And because I'm so desperate to hold onto this feeling I don't really think, and I say the first thing that comes into my head:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

Part III

My eyes widen in surprise. "The Mockingjay Ball?" I say, and my voice sounds strangled in my ears. Yes! Yes, a thousand, million, billion times yes! But my throat has gone dry and my face drains of blood and I feel cold regret grip my heart because-

"I can't," I say.

"I know you'll have to take off work. They might let you off if you just ask…" Gale says, and he doesn't understand.

"No. I really can't," I say with a sigh, and every word is torture. "I already agreed to go with Mazer Preston."

…

**A/N:** I know, I know, another conversation! But I felt Gale had to come to some sort of realization. I'm not really a fan of writing conversations; so let me know what you think of it! Anyways, for all of you that have been patient and stuck with the story, I can promise you that the next chapter will include some more Katniss and Peeta, and perhaps, possibly, maybe, might include the long-awaited kiss. So there!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Sorry it's been a while since I've updated this fic: it's a long story involving travel and apartment hunting and a really tough anatomy exam. Regardless, I am back at last! I've been asked a couple of times if I have an updating schedule, and sadly but obviously, I don't. I only write when I'm feeling inspired so it can be really erratic. I've also been asked how long the story will be. To be honest, I'm not sure, but I really don't think there will be any more than four additional chapters.

Second, the fabulous KenoshaChick has informed me that this story has won First Place WIP AND Judge's Choice WIP awards at the Countdown to Mockingjay fan fiction contest! Check out the link on my profile to read all of the nominees and check out the other winners. Also, I owe KenoshaChick another huge thanks for selecting A Lot Has Happened as one of her fan fiction picks over at Muttations! Check out her review of the story in Episode 11.

Third, I want to give a shout out to my awesomely loyal and patient reviewers: **MorningxLight**, **KenoshaChick** (again!), **windyday**, **fcajoymartin**, **Medea Smyke**, **OMGMaree** (or should I say Eliza?), **Penelope Wendy Bing**, **StillOnCloud9**, **isforwinners** (thanks!), **hollah**, and **scoobygal**. You all are fantastic! Also to my anonymous reviewers **widz**, I do plan on continuing even after the third book is released, **pk**, erm, your wish is my command, and **MADGE AND GALE 4EVA**, thanks for the enthusiasm!

And since it's been so long since I last posted…a little refresher! _**Previously on A Lot Has Happened**__:_

I like Madge. I roll the thought around in my head, and I can barely grasp it because I haven't felt this way in so long. Almost like I'm hopeful. And I want to cling to this feeling, hold on to it with every fiber of my being because my chest doesn't ache and heart doesn't hurt and my head feels clear.

And because I'm so desperate to hold onto this feeling I don't really think, and I say the first thing that comes into my head:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

…

My eyes widen in surprise. "The Mockingjay Ball?" I say, and my voice sounds strangled in my ears. Yes! Yes, a thousand, million, billion times yes! But my throat has gone dry and my face drains of blood and I feel cold regret grip my heart because-

"I can't," I say.

"I know you'll have to take off work. They might let you off if you just ask…" Gale says, and he doesn't understand.

"No. I really can't," I say with a sigh, and every word is torture. "I already agreed to go with Mazer Preston."

And here it at last…**Chapter 6.**

Part I

The week flies by in a rush of working at the bar, running to class, and getting ready for the Mockingjay Ball. But no matter how many dresses I try or beers I pass out or lists of radioactive isotopes I memorize, all I can feel is guilt, guilt, guilt. Guilt and longing. Because I miss Gale, and I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop thinking about the hesitant smile tilting his lips when he asked me to the Ball. The way he looked up at me from under the dark fringe of hair that constantly falls into his eyes as he waited for my answer.

And _god_ I can't stop thinking about his face when I told him I was going to the Ball with Mazer. How his face fell just for an instant, and his grey eyes widened with hurt. And then, more painful than anything, his face went blank and hard and his jaw tightened. And I was so horrified that I made him feel this way that I couldn't think of what to say so I could recapture the friendly, open Gale of just a few moments before.

Oh, I tried. I mumbled and I blushed and I stuttered out how I would much rather go with him. How I never in a million years even thought he would ask.

"It's fine, Madge," he says, and I stop. I can feel the blood draining from my face at his voice, so perfectly neutral. And in that moment I can't really tell if he's hurt at all or if he was just asking me to the Ball to be nice. And then I feel like an idiot because this is Gale Hawthorne, and I'm probably reading too much into our conversation and his hesitant smile and his asking me to the Ball.

And the whole time I'm working all of this out, Gale is pushing back his chair and thanking me for my hospitality and walking towards the door, all with his face completely blank and his voice even and calm. I hurry after him, stumbling as I follow him to the door and faltering over my words as I try to tell him that it was no problem and that I'll see him soon, right?

But I feel dizzy because everything is so off-kilter, like we didn't just have a wonderful, friendly conversation. Like we didn't just sit down to breakfast after he spent the night in my bed.

"Sure, I'll see you later," Gale says without looking at me, and his voice tells me that he doesn't really care either way.

And then the door shuts and he's gone before I can even say goodbye. And all I'm left with is this horrible, sinking feeling of loss as the same painfully obvious thought prickles the back recesses of my brain: _I should have said yes._

So I rush through the busy week feeling by turns guilty for saying no and stupid for feeling guilty because Gale isn't really hurt at all. And the whole week I promise myself I will find Gale so I can talk to him and figure out where we stand, but I'm so busy, so damn busy, that all of a sudden the week is over and it's time for the Ball.

"Damn, honey, you look gorgeous," Mazer drawls as I open the door. And I blush because I can't remember the last time someone looked at me like that and told me I was beautiful.

Especially someone like Mazer Preston with his fitted uniform and his thick, dark hair and his perfect smile. And he's looking at me! With fire in his eyes and a smile full of promises, he's actually looking at me.

I smile and try to forget about Gale as I put my arm through his and we walk towards the Ball. I can't help it though; I feel nervous and giddy and flushed, but I don't know whether it's because I'm with Mazer or because I'm about to see Gale.

And then we're inside, and I feel overwhelmed by the color and the music and the wealth that drips of these people thick like honey. I look back and forth amazed and awed, and I tell myself I'm just looking around trying to take it all in, not that I'm looking for anyone in particular.

It doesn't help when Mazer reaches for the tray of a passing waiter and smoothly picks up two flutes of champagne. I take one with a shy smile, and before I can take a sip he clinks our glasses together lightly and says, "To a wonderful night," with the ghost of a wink and the sexiest smirk I have ever seen. I take a sip of champagne, the tickle of the bubbles adding to the heat racing up and down my spine, and suddenly I wish I hadn't worn a dress that is cut so low in the front and back.

I feel Mazer's hand warm and low on my back, and I almost gasp at his voice, soft and intimate in my ear. "Come on, honey, I want you to meet a few people," he says, his breath a hot whisper on my neck. I can only clutch my glass of champagne and nod wordlessly in agreement as Mazer gently leads me through the crowd, his hand a burning reminder at the small of my back.

It gets a little easier then, as Mazer introduces me to his friends and his fellow officers and to politicians and wealthy sponsors. I only have to say a few polite words and smile on occasion. I set down my glass of champagne while Mazer is distracted and take several deep, calming breaths. I remember the long-forgotten manners and bearing bred in me since birth, lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders and injecting my manner with confidence and poise. I remind myself that I am Madge Undersee, daughter of the mayor of one of the twelve districts of Panem. The refined mask falls in place, and when Mazer hands me another glass of champagne I'm not afraid to take it and I'm not afraid to place my hand on his shoulder and smile at his most recent joke.

Every one around me is playing a game, but I can play along too.

And when I look over my shoulder and see Gale Hawthorne smiling at a gorgeous young girl with cascading blonde hair, my breath only hitches for a second before I turn back to the group of air force pilots around me and join the conversation, taking a small sip of champagne and focusing on the feel of Mazer's thumb tracing small, warm circles along the base of my spine where the fabric of my dress begins, a promise of things to come.

I stand that way as long as I can, making courteous chitchat with the elite of D13 and pretending that I'm not acutely aware that Gale Hawthorne is flirting with another woman just out of my line of sight. I hate myself for it, but eventually I can't take it any more. I swallow my pride and tilt my shoulders so I can see him again, this time handing around drinks to a whole group of stunning women.

I swallow the bile climbing up my throat, and whisper to myself: _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him. _And I almost convince myself that I'm moving on.

And I say almost convince myself because I may be pathetic in many ways, but I am usually honest with myself, and I honestly know that the canapés taste like dust in my mouth and my head hurts from all of my disingenuous smiles and I feel all alone because Mazer melted into the crowd ages ago for a private chat with his superior officer leaving me with a group of socialites and the promise that he'd be right back.

I feel a familiar prickle in the corner of my eye, and I'm about to extract myself from the conversation and find a ladies' room so I can compose myself when I feel a hand on my elbow. For a wild, thrilling second I think it might be Gale, but then I turn around and see that it's Katniss.

"Wow, Katniss, you look wonderful!" I say and give her a hug. And she does look beautiful in her long, midnight blue gown and simply braided hair.

Katniss hugs me back fiercely, and once again I feel how much we've missed each other. Once we let each other go, Peeta kisses me warmly on the cheeks, and suddenly it's just the three of us. Talking, smiling, catching up. Peeta tells me all about their trips to rally the rebels in other districts and their efforts to garner money and support throughout D13, and by the way his shoulders relax as he's telling me all this, I can tell that he's happy to be finally talking to a friend rather than to another politician. And when Peeta slips away to grab drinks, Katniss pulls me aside and in delighted whispers tells me how happy they are together and how she wouldn't be able to get through all the schmoozing and politics and planning if it weren't for Peeta and how they want to get married as soon as the war is over.

So Katniss and I huddle in a corner and I compliment Peeta's blue eyes and his messy blond hair until she can't help but spill some of her secrets about him and their time together. And I smile and laugh and nod encouragingly and sometimes get tongue-tied because some of the things she says make me blush too hard. And giggling together it feels like old times again even though we never really talked about girly things back in District 12 because we didn't have any girly things to talk about.

But eventually, our laughter begins to dwindle and Katniss starts mumbling that her feet hurt and I am thinking about finding Mazer and telling him that I need to get home when all of a sudden I feel a hand brush along my arm and the heat of a body pressed tight to my back and a warm breath like a caress in my ear, "I've been neglecting you all night, honey. Come on, say you'll dance with me."

I can feel myself being propelled forward, and all I can manage is a semi-apologetic look to Katniss, which she answers with a raised eyebrow and amused smile, and a pleased blush heating my cheeks.

And then I'm in Mazer's arms, and because he is always a perfect gentleman he leads me expertly through the dance, his eyes dark and smoldering and his hand hot at my waist. I don't want him to see how much he is affecting me so I brush my eyes over the room, across dazzling gowns and feathers, flicked hair, flawless smiles, and sparkling jewels, white gloves and fluttering fans, across tables bubbling with champagne, glistening with rich fruits, and frothy with cream.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back and let it all consume me: the striking colors, the tinkling laughter, the champagne flowing like a drug in my veins.

And Mazer's cheek on my hair, his voice a whisper in my ear: telling me I'm soft and warm and gorgeous, telling me he was thinking about me all night, how he wanted nothing more than to pull me indecently close during the dance and just hold me, hold me, hold me tight.

And he whispers other things that he wants to do to me and with me and I can feel my body warming and my limbs melting away, and suddenly we're behind a curtain in a deserted hallway and all I can see are his eyes, deep and brown and burning for me. My hands are moving along his jaw, feather light on his neck, tangled in his hair, and then slowly, so slowly, he leans forward, a shallow groan and hot breaths, and then his lips are on mine.

And though the kiss is soft, his lips are blazing with heat, and I find myself clutching at his hair, pulling him closer and closer until I feel his arms tighten around my waist, so tight I can barely breathe, and I feel myself pressed against the length of him, and his lips are like fire on mine, and all I can feel is the kiss, deep and warm and slow and moaning.

And just when I am dizzy and drugged and sure I'm melting to the floor, he pulls back just a little, his hand soft as a breath on my collar bone and his voice no more than a murmur, "Damn, honey, I've been wanting to do that all night."

And I lift my eyes to his and think that maybe, just maybe, I could lose myself in their swirling brown depths forever. His eyes are burning like fire, pulling me in closer and deeper, but then I blink and suddenly I'm looking into grey eyes, wide and hurt and bright and I'm falling into them, suspended for a moment that stretches taut and tight into infinity.

But then I blink again and it's Mazer holding me and Gale is gone, the curtain swinging lightly in the rush of air he leaves behind.

Part II

For the week after my conversation with Madge, my head is a boiling mass of confusion and hurt and anger and disappointment. First come the disappointment, regardless of what I'm doing, and the memory of Madge, avoiding my gaze and telling me that she's going to the Ball with someone else. Then comes the hurt, and to be honest, the feeling of stupidity, because I asked Madge Undersee to the Mockingjay Ball and actually thought that she would say yes, that she didn't already have someone to go with who is more handsome and more wealthy and more polished and well mannered than me. Because I was stupid enough to think that when I found myself falling for Madge, there would be a chance in hell that she would fall for me too.

Cue the hurt. Because I hate the fact that Madge would rather go to the Ball with someone like Mazer Preston than she would with someone like me. Because even though she's poor and struggling and working her fingers to the bone right now, she will always be of better blood and higher class than me—it's written in her manners and her language, in the paleness of her skin and the light blond of her hair that Madge Undersee is meant for better things, a better life, and better men than me. And despite all of that, I hurt even more because I know that I could have changed her opinion of me if I had just bothered to be nicer. I had _years_ to realize Madge's worth, years to convince her to give me a chance, years we could have spent together before she ever heard the name Mazer Preston

Then comes the regret, sharp and biting like acid in the back of my throat: I should have realized before, I should have said something sooner, I should have come home earlier, _damn it_, I should have, I should have, I should have done and thought a million things before Mazer Preston got his slimy hands all over Madge.

And then comes the anger, as inevitable as the icy bite of winter. The anger, the anger, chewing at my insides, burning in my guts, festering and pulling me apart from within. My dearest friends and my most constant companions since the war began: anger and regret. And loneliness, don't forget loneliness.

I do try to bury my loneliness. I meet up with my platoon mates for drinks, delicious drinks, burning smoothly down my throat and helping me forget. And I drink in my family as well, spending as much time with them as I can before I have to say goodbye. I don't tire of playing with Posy or listening to Vick's stories or watching Rory act like a man. I don't tire of spending hours at home, and I tell myself it's because of the kids and my mom and not because I'm waiting for _her _to stop by.

But as reliable as clockwork and inescapable as death, the hurt, the regret, the anger build in my chest until I can't breathe and the drinks don't help and I have to leave home so my family won't see me this way. And the only thing that helps is war. Planning and training and the sweet release of the shooting range. I can flex my arms and sweat drips down my back and I can feel my anger sharpening my focus and improving my reflexes. And at the end of a long day of strategies and weapons and drills and more drills, I'm too exhausted to be angry any more.

I hate the idea of the Ball and all it entails: the dancing and talking and flirting, yes flirting, because what better way to get the ladies to convince their rich husbands to support the troops than with a smile and a wink and the hint of something more? Because just as important as knowing how to clean an assault rifle and put on a flak jacket and aim a flame thrower, a soldier and officer must know how to play the game. And, oh, how I hate the game. But after a whole week of stewing in my juices and thinking and hoping and wondering, a small part of me wants to go to the Ball if it means I'll get to see Madge again. Because I only have three weeks left before I'm shipped back to the Capitol, and I can't leave feeling this way. Not again.

So the day of the Ball I wake up early to shave and wash my hair and press my dress uniform. And I force myself not to drink anything before the evening starts because the army is low on bullets and armored plates for our vehicles and because I have to do my duty before I can think about myself or Madge.

And at eight exactly I'm handing over my ticket and being checked off the guest list and then I'm inside looking around at the jewel-toned dresses and pinstriped suits and bullshit smiles spouting bullshit words.

I spy a group of teenage girls, clearly D13 socialites, and I figure it's as good a place to start as any. As I wend my way towards them through the crowd I imagine how the evening will go: Can I get you ladies drinks? No problem, absolutely, what are you having? Really? That's what I'm having too. No really, it's no problem (thank god for the open bar). A dance? Of course, one for each of you. You're all too beautiful for me to pick just one. And then they'll dance and giggle and follow after me like pearls on a string, and they'll go into their purses and pledge their pocket money to the dashing rebels, and they'll go home and beg daddy until he pledges too.

Right before I reach them, I look up and am startled to see _her_. Standing tall and beautiful and confident, her dress cut low in the front and lower in the back, a shimmering snakeskin column of green glittering to the floor. Her hair tied back smooth and elegant, revealing the curve of her neck and the creamy, delicate skin of her throat. And at her side, Mazer Preston, with his perfect hair and blinding smile and his hand gently rubbing promises along that flawless place where her skin ends and her dress begins.

She looks perfect.

And when I say she looks perfect, I don't just mean she's beautiful; that goes without saying. What I mean is that she looks like she belongs in that dress with her hair up and a polished man at her side. This is what Madge was born and bred for—wealth and elegance and social graces. She was not born and bred for someone like me.

"What's your name, soldier?" One of the socialites, fortified by her friends and the audacity of youth, has found the courage to approach me. Duty, duty comes first, I remind myself as I turn towards the girls and away from all of my regrets.

"My name is Gale Hawthorne, miss. Can I get you a drink?" I say with the hint of a smirk, and as all her friends gasp and nudge each other and try to hide their smiles, I take one last look at Madge as she disappears into the crowd, Mazer Preston's hand guiding her by the small of her back.

Then it begins. All of the drinks and the laughs and "My, don't you look beautiful"s. And the dancing, the God-forsaken dancing, where I try to smile and not trip at the same time and the girls don't notice because they've grown bold by the intimacy of the dance, and they try to pull me away into dark corners or back to their rooms "because daddy will be here for hours." And if it where a different time or a different place, I probably would have said yes. I would have allowed any one of the faceless girls to pull me along to melt into the crowd and melt into her arms. But I can't. Because even though my hands are on their waists and my lips on their ears, my eyes are searching the room for a glimmer of blond hair, the glitter of a green dress.

And several hours later I do see her again. Smiling at Peeta and clutching Katniss's hand. And it's just too much to stare all of my regret and heartache in the face so I do the one thing that ruins everything but feels like a cure. I head towards the bar.

The first sip tastes like air to a drowning man: sweet and free and a little painful too. So I drink and I drink and I grin and talk when I have to. But when I look over and see Katniss smiling up at Peeta, his arms wrapped tight around her as they dance, I know that I have to get away.

So I set down my drink and push through the crowd, and I slip behind a curtain so I'm in a cool and quiet hallway, empty except for another officer. I can see his back curled over, and I think maybe he's had too much to drink and is going to be sick, but then I hear a soft moan and realize that he's just leaning over a girl and kissing her into oblivion.

And then the girl sighs and her eyes flit to mine, and they're blue—a deep, impossible blue. I lose myself in her eyes for one, slow, interminable second, and I feel a familiar crashing wave of hurt and surprise and pain slicing through my chest like a knife. Because it's Madge Undersee kissing another man. Her eyes dilated dark, her lips pink and swollen, and her hands in his hair. And it feels like losing Katniss all over again—shockingly painful and also blindingly clear that, once again, I am not good enough.

But then Madge blinks, and I'm gone, pushing through the curtain and shouldering my way through the crowd. And all I want is a drink and a way home. Or better yet, an hour at the shooting range.

But suddenly Katniss is blocking my way with a bemused smile and a "Gale, where have you been? We've been looking for you all night." And instead of Katniss, all I can see is failure—the first in a long list of losses and mistakes that somehow have come to define my life. And there, standing behind her, that jackass Peeta Mellark, smiling at me like a goof and holding her drink like a little bitch, and all of my rage bubbles black and burns caustically up through my chest and along my limbs, and I stalk straight past Katniss, pull my arm back, and punch Peeta Mellark in the jaw.

He goes down like a sack of flour, the drinks flying out of his hands and his fake leg clattering with him to the ground.

"What the hell, Gale?" Katniss says, pushing past me and kneeling at his side, stroking his hair and asking him if he's all right in the most tender voice I have ever heard. And I ignore the look of hurt she gives me, and I just stand over Peeta clenching my fists and fuming, waiting for him to get up, to push me back, to say anything, absolutely anything, that would give me the excuse to pummel him, kick him until his jaw shatters and his nose bleeds and his fake leg falls off and every one can see that he's weak, so weak, that he's nothing but a baker with blue eyes and a honey tongue.

But damn it, Peeta wins again because he doesn't get up and he doesn't say a word except to tell Katniss that he's fine. And he just looks up at me from the floor with one cheek starting to swell, and there's no anger in his eyes, only understanding. And somewhere, deep in there, I can see pity.

And I want to kill Peeta Mellark for daring to pity me. For understanding that the war has taken my innocence and my comrades and my home and my best friend and the love of my life. And I want to kill him for seeing all of that and not having enough mercy on me to fight back.

"I'll take him home. Katniss, don't worry; you take care of Peeta. I'll take him home," I hear, and then I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, and I know without looking that it's Madge. And here I go again, showing her what a barbarian I am. As if she needs another reason to stay away.

And I can't think because I'm blinded by hate. I hate myself and I hate dopey Peeta Mellark and I hate that Katniss loves him and I hate that Madge is talking to me like I'm some kind of rabid animal that needs to be calmed. I hate. I _hate_. I hate _everything_ and every one staring and pointing and whispering, and I just want to explode and dissolve and disappear all at the same time.

I brush Madge's hand away because I can't bear to look at her, and I stalk towards the exit, unbuttoning my jacket savagely as I go.

Part III

"Gale," I whisper.

"Hm?" Mazer asks, contentedly, his forehead resting against mine.

"What?" I say guiltily, my eyes flicking to his. "Nothing, um, nothing…" I murmur, and then I blush because I realize what we've just done and who has just seen.

And then I hear it. A collective gasp and the sound of glass breaking. Cries and fearful whispers taut with excitement as the story begins to spread. And I know, I know in the marrow of my bones, that Gale Hawthorne has done something stupid.

"What the hell?" Mazer says at the noise .He takes me by the hand and pulls me through the crowd until we see Peeta on the floor and Katniss looking upset and Gale absolutely seething with rage.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm once again offering to take Gale home after a fight. But this time, Gale isn't pliant and plaintive and lost. He is burning with anger, tense to the point of breaking with unreleased fury.

"Wait, Gale!" I call as he rushes away, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his collar as he goes.

"I don't need a bloody babysitter, Madge," he snarls angrily over his shoulder, and I have to take a second to swallow my hurt before hurrying after him again.

"I'm not trying to baby-sit you, Gale," I pant, my voice as reasonable as possible considering the circumstances. "Just make sure you're alright. Just, just slow down a second. Tell me what happened!"

"I punched Peeta Mellark in the face is what happened," Gale says with a savage grin.

"Yes, I know," I say, and now I'm really struggling to keep up, my ankles twisting and my feet burning in my tall shoes. "But _why_?" I beg, partly because I'm curious and partly because I see Gale disappearing down another corridor and I really want him to slow down.

"Because he's a prick," Gale says as I round the corner, and he's fumbling with a keycard, trying to slide it into the scanner on a door in front of him. A light on the card reader turns green and Gale shoulders his way in.

"Why do you care anyways?" he says as I follow after him, trying to catch my breath.

I'm about to answer when I realize where I am. I stop. "Is this your room?" I say in awe as I take in the tiny space, hard bed, and row of liquor bottles lining the wall.

"Yep, the army's version of home sweet home," Gale answers bitterly. He's pulling off his uniform coat, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. He throws the jacket in a corner and continues pacing back and forth, still edgy with pent-up anger.

I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't help it and for some reason I have to know. "Did you punch Peeta because you're still in love with Katniss?"

"NO!" Gale shouts, kicking a metal chair into the opposite wall with shattering force. I gasp in surprise and a little bit of fear. "I am _not_ in love with Katniss," he adds forcefully, whirling towards me. I want to back away as he walks toward me, eyes blazing. "What does it matter to you anyway?" he growls. "Why don't you just run off to your slimy boyfriend?"

I can feel tears burning my eyes because I'm scared and alone and hurt by the terrible things Gale is saying. But I don't back down. Not after all I've been through. Not anymore.

I lift my chin and look in Gale's eyes and with all the anger I can muster I say, "Mazer is not my boyfriend. And you need to calm down."

"He's not your boyfriend?" Gale says, his fingers flexing like he wants to break something. "I saw the way you were kissing him. Is that how you kiss all the guys who _aren't_ your boyfriend?"

And I can't stop help it, my eyes overflow and I feel tears fall hot and fast down my cheeks, but I don't look away. "How dare you say something like that to me when you know better than anyone what I've been through!" I take a step forward. "And who I date or don't date is _none_ of your business, Gale Hawthorne."

"I know," he says, and his jaw is tense and his eyes are hard, but somehow he doesn't seem angry anymore. "Don't you think I know that, Madge?" he says, turning away and scrubbing a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly tired.

"If you know, then why would you say all those horrible things to me?" I say, my voice still teary as I try to mask my confusion.

"I don't know!" Gale says, whirling back around and taking a step towards me. "Because I'm a jerk and a masochist and I can't, I can't-"

"Can't what?" I say in exasperation. "Can't what, Gale?"

There's a sudden fire smoldering in Gale's eyes, and I feel like I'll burn to a crisp just looking at him, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

"I can't help it," Gale answers, and suddenly his lips are hot and needy on mine.

I gasp into Gale's mouth, and his tongue dives into mine. His hands are rough in my hair, tangling in farther and farther until I can feel the elegant knot coming undone and falling down my back like a waterfall. He takes a few steps, forcing me up against the wall, and then his whole body is pressing into me, long and lean and hard.

And hot. Gale's body pulses with heat and desire, his hips grinding into mine and his lips wet and hungry and biting. And I'm moaning and struggling for air, my head crushed against the hard stone of the wall as Gale's tongue dives deeper and deeper into my mouth and his hands are hot on my face, my sides, squeezing my thighs and stroking my neck.

And I want him to slow down, just for a second, so I can take a breath, but his lips are insistent and his hands are everywhere, and I really don't want to say anything because Gale Hawthorne is kissing me. His touches are too rough and his lips are too forceful, but I don't want to ruin this moment because I never thought it would happen and I'm pretty sure it will never happen again.

So I try to keep pace, but I can't seem to move fast enough and I can't get any _air_ and his touch is almost bruising. And suddenly I feel his hand at my shoulder tugging at the strap of my dress, and I don't want to stop him but I also don't want it to be like this.

"Yes, baby," he groans into my mouth, pulling down my dress, and because he doesn't use my name I suddenly know in a horrifying, heart-stopping moment that Gale is drunk and doesn't even know it's me.

Part IV

-_SLAP!_

"What the hell?" I say as Madge's smack sends me reeling, my cheek blossoming with pain

"How dare you? How _dare_ you?" Madge says, her voice shaking. She's struggling with her dress, trying to pull the strap back onto her shoulder even though it's a twisted mess.

"What-?" I start, reaching out to help her.

"Don't touch me!" she yells, pushing me away. I stumble back a few steps, my balance a little weak from the alcohol. "Of all the men who've mistreated me in my life, you are the _only_ one who can make me feel like total _shit_!" she says, and I can't really understand her because the room is spinning and my jaw is aching from the slap.

"Madge-"I start, but she cuts me off.

"I'm not some hooker you can pull into your room and _use_-" she says, and there are tears pooling in her eyes.

"But…but I don't think of you that way, Madge," I say, bewildered, and I blink rapidly so the room will just _damn it_ stop spinning.

"Mixed messages! It's always mixed messages with you." Madge says, as she finally untangles her strap. "You yell at me and then we're friends. You sleep with some girl from the bar and then you ask me to the Ball. You maul me and try to rip off my dress and then you say you don't think I'm a whore. And I'm an idiot because it's not even mixed signals because you love Katniss!"

"Katniss?" I say, and I scowl because I know I'll never be with Katniss, and anyways I like Madge.

"Yes, Katniss!" Madge says, waving her hand at my expression. She runs her hand through her hair, and the blond strands fall in a tousled mess around her flushed face. She turns to the side and sighs. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this; it's not like you'll even remember this conversation."

"Just hold on-" I start. My head is pounding, and I'm completely confused because this conversation is going in a million different directions. And I'm _drunk_, for God's sake, and I know I have to defend myself but I'm not really sure why. Or how. And I feel really guilty because Madge said I make her feel like shit and I'm still trying to figure out how I managed that.

And Madge is still talking, her arms wrapped around herself and her hair spilling down her back, her voice choked with tears: "Just like you forgot about that night you told me about Thom…"

"Thom?" I say, startled.

"…and that night with the morphling."

"Whoa, what?" I say, completely at a loss.

"And then I come here and you treat me like I'm just some girl you picked up in a bar and can sleep with, and…"

"Whoa, Madge, stop," I say, grabbing her arm. "It's not like that." And that, at least, I know is true.

But I don't think she can hear me because there are tears running down her face and she's still talking: "And I might work in some bar, but that doesn't mean you can treat me like a piece of _trash_." She's punctuates the word by pushing me away.

She turns around and looks at me over her shoulder. "I would have done anything for you. I would have walked through _hell_ for you, Gale Hawthorne. But you're so damn blind." And her voice breaks at the end of her sentence and then she's turning around and walking away, and I'm open-mouth shocked and feel really horrible.

"Madge, stop. Damn it, just let me think for a second," I say, and she stops in the doorway and turns to look back at me. And there's so much I have to say, but I can't think because all I can see is Madge looking at me with her wide blue eyes, and she looks devastated and I know it's because of me. And a million thoughts are racing around in my mind but I can't quite grasp them because my head is hurting so much and the only thing I really know is that I hate that Madge is looking at me like that.

And I guess I take too long to actually say something because Madge starts sobbing again and just turns around and walks out, shutting the door behind her. I'm a little slow to respond because I'm still trying to figure out what the hell I can say to her to fix this mess, and so by the time I get to the door and wrench it open, Madge is gone.

And all she leaves behind is the trace of her perfume and the image of her face, looking for all the world like I had broken her heart.

Part IV

I don't return to the Ball. I don't tell Mazer that I'm all right and that I'm going home because I'm tired. I don't find Katniss or check on Peeta.

No, I run straight home. Sobbing with makeup dripping down my cheeks and my hair in my face, I run home so I can cry in my pillow over Gale Hawthorne again.

It's kind of strange that no one stops me, a girl in a beautiful dress with her hair a mess and tears streaking down her cheeks, but I'm also kind of grateful that people only stare, whispering to one another, as I hurry past.

And when I get home, I'm really crying. Wracking sobs that saw through my body and scratch my throat as my chest heaves. And I feel like a fool but also like my heart has broken because even though I know Gale loves Katniss, I never imagined he thought so little of me that he would use me to forget about her. Like I'm some kind of throwaway whore.

And then I do something I haven't done for a long time, not since my dad died and I had nightmares about my mom and I was alone trying to survive in District 13 with no money and no friends. I dig through my cabinet to the very back where I keep a bottle of white liquor. And I sit on my bed and struggle with the seal, trying not to think about Gale and sobbing the whole time because I can't. And when I finally get the bottle open, I take a long drink and wince as the noxious taste burns a harsh, poisonous path down my throat.

Then I collapse on the bed and bury my face in my pillow and cry because my heart feels like it's cracked down the middle. And I push the bottle of liquor away, refusing to take another sip.

The bitterness tastes too much like loneliness.

…

**A/N:** Um, so who is excited for Mockingjay? I can't believe it's coming out so soon! I do hope to continue the story even after Mockingjay is released even though, clearly, this story will be a bit alternate universe by then. Or hey, who knows, maybe Gale will end up a drunk womanizer! Either way, I hope you all will stick with the story…because what better way to deal with the end of the series than by immersing ourselves in fan fiction? Anyways, let me know what you think of this chapter. I personally don't think it's my best, but I'm super jet lagged so what do I know, right?

PS: I will be revising Chapter 2 soon—just fixing some formatting things and grammatical errors. So if you get an alert, don't worry you're not missing anything!


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** Once again another huge thanks to my gorgeous reviewers: **sam21**, you're too sweet, **fcajoymartin**, glad you figured it out, **MorningxLight**, your reviews are too funny and so awesome, **pk**, thanks!, **DemigodWiththeBread**, hopefully I'll be a bit faster at updating now, **IsForWinners**, loved your review!, **roj** (twice!), **Medea Smyke**, don't worry, I'm all about happy endings, **Butterfingers13**, your English is great, and **hollah**, thanks, I'm pretty sure I will continue!

I've rewritten this chapter a couple of times so I'm just posting it even though I'm not even sure what it says any more. Erm, be gentle?

Chapter 7

Part I

The blaring of my alarm pulls me from sleep. I slap haphazardly at my bedside table until I hit the right button and the alarm goes quiet. My limbs are heavy and my head is aching and it's a struggle to haul myself into a sitting position and then up and off the bed.

I make the mistake of stopping in front of the mirror before I turn on the shower, and I realize that I look exactly as horrible as I feel. I had fallen asleep in my dress from last night, the strap ripped and ruined. My eyelashes clump together, a gluey tar of mascara and tears. My hair is a tangled mess, my face still red and puffy from crying.

And I have to work a morning shift at the bar.

"Damn you, Gale Hawthorne," I mumble, half angry and half devastated, before turning on the shower and starting what I know will be a horrendous day.

And I'm right. The bar is full of men: unshaven, hungover, rude. They make disparaging comments about the blondness of my hair and the tightness of my dress, and normally it wouldn't bother me. I would think about my home and my dad and the fact that I'm the daughter of a political leader and rebel martyr and suddenly the men's petty comments wouldn't mean anything. But today their words are like salt on an open wound: hurtful and biting, and the back recesses of my mind whisper, true. Come here, pretty thing. Where's my drink, you whore. Come give daddy a kiss, sweet. And Gale, groaning with desire, his fingers rough on my skin, "_Yes, baby_."

And I want to leave this bar forever. Throw down my tray and rip off the dress and damn them all for making me doubt myself and for thinking I'm trash, and for making Gale think I'm trash too.

But I can't leave because I need the money. Their money. And all I can do is tell myself to hold on. Wait until tonight to collapse into a heap and cry, cry, cry away my pain and my inadequacy and my broken heart.

Because men don't tip girls who cry.

So I laugh and smile and take their insults and their money, and the whole time I feel like I'm shattered inside.

And I'm also stressed because I have a massive exam this evening. So between shifts and during quiet moments, I hide in the kitchen behind a burlap sack of flour, and I try not to gag at the smell of frying eggs and old tomato juice and fermenting white liquor as I study lists of radioactive compounds and models of chemical structures and drawings of bonding patterns until my head spins and I feel faint.

And when my ten hours at the bar are finally over, my hair smells like grease and smoke and my dress is pinching uncomfortably tight under my arms and I feel sticky with sweat. But I don't have time to go home and change. I wash my face in the bathroom sink and slip on a pair of flat shoes and tie up my hair so the smell won't waft around every time I move my head, and then I grab all of my books and charts and my tall pair of boots and run up to the third floor where my school is located. And I keep my head down as I rush to class in case Mazer is waiting for me and I have to explain about last night.

But Mazer isn't waiting for me—only the examiner. And the other ten students, looking fresh and clean and prepared.

And the exam is a bitch. My head hurts from squinting at the tiny chemical structures I scratch out on the page and from trying to remember how obscure reactions proceed and from manually calculating the half-life of hypothetical compounds. And I'm dizzy because I've hardly eaten, and the smell of those infernal eggs still clings to my hair like old yolk.

And the whole time, all I can think is that I should have spent last night studying instead of going to that bloody, _bloody_ Mockingjay Ball.

And finally at eleven o-clock at night, I gather my books and my boots and turn in my test paper and trudge to the elevator, my entire body weak with exhaustion and hurt and disappointment. I'm just so _tired_, and I feel fragile and bruised. Like I've been battered from all sides, and I just really, really want to give up.

When I finally reach my apartment, I fumble with the keycard, trying to slip it inside the reader without dropping any of my bags or books or papers. And inside it's so hot because of the broken air filters and the shelf is still a mess from when I was trying to find my bottle of liquor last night, and I just drop all my stuff in the middle of the room because I really couldn't care less. And as I make my way to my room, all I can think is that I want a shower and I want my bed and I don't want to wake up for a long, long time.

But as I approach my room I hear a strange clanking sound. And my stomach drops because I know I don't have a deadbolt, but I never thought it would be a problem because I don't have anything worth stealing. And I just want this horrific day to be over, and I can't imagine a worse way for it to end than this. And so I'm totally blindsided when I actually push open the door, and my mouth falls open because I can't believe what I'm seeing:

Gale Hawthorne is standing in the middle of my room, a wrench in one hand and the guiltiest expression I have ever seen plastered all over his face.

Part II

Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

Pain. Pounding. Ugh.

I wake up groggily, pulled out of sleep by the intense pound, pound, pounding of my head. I sit up gingerly, my eyes gummy and my mouth stale.

I feel like shit.

And that damn pounding just won't stop. And the memories from last night, they won't stop either.

Madge kissing Mazer, her fingers curled around his neck, her eyes dusky and dark. Pound. Pound. Katniss grinning at Peeta, their fingers intertwined. Pound. Pound. Peeta looking up at me from the ground, his eyes swirling with pity and forgiveness. Pound. Pound. Pound. And Madge. I hate to remember Madge. Her face broken and her eyes wet, waiting, waiting for me to say something, anything to make it right.

Pound. Pound. Pound! POUND!

And that's when I realize that the pounding isn't coming from inside my head, but from outside my door. And I know that today I have so much shit to deal with and things to fix and regrets to add to my too-long list, but all I want to do is hide under the covers and never come out. And so I try to pull the sheets over my head and bury my face in my pillow, but the pounding just won't stop, and I know I should probably deal with it and my head is absolutely killing me, so eventually I haul myself out of bed and pad towards the door.

And of all the people I hurt last night: Madge and Mazer and Peeta and all those girls I led on and rejected, I find Katniss at my doorstep, a scowl on her face and her hand curled in a fist, ready to continue pounding and pounding, and a look of surprise because I actually opened up.

She recovers quickly with a "What the hell is the matter with you, Gale?" and a painful shove as she shoulders her way into the room.

And the only thing I can think is that at least I'm getting the least painful conversation over with first. Because conversations with Katniss are straightforward and therefore relatively painless. Not exactly like the quick rip of a bandage—more like getting executed with a shot to the head rather than being imprisoned and tortured for years. So I try to rub away the growing ache in my forehead, and I just go ahead and say the words that I know she wants to hear: "Listen, Katniss, I'm sorry about Peeta. It was way out of line."

And I expect her to yell a bit, rant that I don't understand him and won't give him a chance and that he never meant me any harm, maybe give me another shove, until all her anger dissipates like a Capitol flash bomb: banging and bright and destructive, but that burns out the instant after it melts all your skin away. But Katniss doesn't yell and she doesn't shove me either. All she does is turn to face me, and then she says, "Peeta? I'm not talking about Peeta."

And I have no idea what the hell she's talking about then, unless there's something elseI did last night that is worse than knocking out her precious Peeta. Her moony Mellark. And I can't think of anything except other insulting epithets for her dopey doughboy, and I'm pretty sure those won't be appreciated by present company, so eventually all I can manage is, "Huh?"

"I'm not talking about Peeta… at the moment," she amends, her voice laced with warning. Suddenly her eyes narrow, and the air crackles with her ferocity as she takes a step towards me. "No. At the moment I'm talking about Madge."

"Madge?" I say, my heart sinking.

"Yes, Madge," Katniss says, taking another step towards me. I don't even try to fight the impulse to back away.

"How do you know about that?" I say, and I hope she doesn't realize that I'm stalling for time. Because I don't know what to say about Madge. I haven't had a chance to process how much I've screwed things up with her, leave aside figure out how I'm supposed to explain my actions to Katniss.

"I don't know about it," Katniss answers, "and that's the problem. All I know is that she didn't come back to the Ball after she left with you, and when Peeta and I went to check on her, she answered the door sobbing."

"She was crying?" I say, and my voice cracks on the word.

"Yeah, but she kept saying she was fine. Insisted on it, then shut the door in my face." Katniss's eyes are on fire. "Now I want you to sit down, put a _shirt_ on, and then tell me what the hell you did to her."

My instinct is to fight back at the accusation in Katniss's voice; tell her she's crazy and can't demand anything from me and to back the hell off. But I know she's right. That everything she's imagining I did to Madge is true, and probably worse.

So all I do is sigh and pick up a crumpled t-shirt of the bed and sit down at the tiny metal table while Katniss stands over me with her arms crossed and her foot tapping.

"Now tell me what happened," she says.

But the reasons for what happened go so far back that I don't even know where to start. I mean, how do I explain how I got all screwed up in the war and how I used to love Katniss so much that it hurt, and everything made me so mad and sad that I couldn't think and all I could do was drink. And somehow in the tangled mess of my mind and my life, I realized that Madge understood and being with her somehow made it better. Made me better—less angry and less reckless and more hopeful and maybe even happy. And that's saying a lot considering I never really thought I'd make it out of the war alive, leave aside feel things like hope and happiness again.

And how am I supposed to explain that when I saw Madge kissing Mazer Preston, I couldn't handle that blinding shock of hurt and betrayal a second time. How can I tell her that I couldn't handle my anger and my emotions, and that's why I went to the bar, and that's why I punched Peeta, and that's why I kissed Madge until her lips bruised. Because I couldn't handle it. The one whose been handling war and rebellion and starvation and raising a family and breaking the law to hunt for years and years. I just couldn't handle it anymore.

How can I tell Katniss all this when I haven't even had a decent conversation with her since she left for her first Games? How can I explain when my throat has been clogged for years with things I haven't told her: How it killed me to watch her fight for her life. How I hate that I can't even hate Peeta because he's such a nice guy. How I ache with loneliness because she left me for someone else, traded me in for a better friend and a better lover. How I've been avoiding her ever since the war started because I can't bear to look at her and remember all that I've lost: my life and my home and my best friend. How the war has systematically and tortuously broken me down to such a point that if she actually bothered to get to know me again, she wouldn't recognize the broken shards of the person I've become.

Where the hell do I even start?

And being the idiot that I am, I start with the stupidest thing possible: I tell Katniss I was drunk.

And she doesn't believe me because I used to rip Haymitch all the time back in District 12 for wasting his time and all his Victor's wealth on being a worthless, wasteful drunk.

And when she tells me all of that, I get really pissed off, partly because she's throwing my words back in my face, but mostly because she's right. And because I'm so angry and because I hate that she's judging me, I refuse to apologize. Instead I tell her that, as a matter of fact, I'm drunk a lot of the time nowadays. And I also tell her that it doesn't matter that I was drunk since I would've punched Peeta anyways because I really can't stand the guy.

And Katniss doesn't say anything, just kind of peers at me like she's seeing me for the first time, and it really isn't all that far off considering how much we've drifted apart lately. But maybe she still does know me because she figures out pretty quick that I brought up Peeta to distract her from my drinking. But at least she doesn't figure out that I'd rather talk about my drinking than talk about Madge.

So she stays on subject, asking me how often I drink and how much and where do I even do it, and eventually she gets to the real question: but Gale,_ why?_ And her face is so serious that I know I can't evade any longer. So I lean forward, elbows on knees, and I avoid looking her in the eye. And then I tell her that drinking helps me deal with things sometimes. And she moves to say something, but then she stops because she knows if she says anything now, I'll clam up for good.

And then I have no choice but to tell her that I started drinking during the war. Because of all the things I've seen, and, _God_, all the things I've done. And I try to explain that there's just something about war: the senseless destruction and the cruelty and the _anger_. And how once you get back to civilian life, all of that is still there, it doesn't just go away, and sometimes I get so angry, and I can't shoot anyone or blow it away with a well-placed bomb, and it just burns and burns and burns inside of me until I don't even know what to do.

"I know, Gale," Katniss says, and her voice has softened a little, and her eyes have softened too. "I've been through it in the Hunger Games. I know what it's like."

And that makes me angrier than anything because she _doesn't _know, she doesn't get it. Because she had Peeta, someone to help her through it, to look out for her throughout the Games. Me, I lost everything. And when she brings up my family, I tell her that they moved on in the three years I was away. They found new ways to cope and get by and survive, and seeing that made me feel like I had lost them too. And then I tell her that she's my family, and when she chose Peeta over me, it made everything so much worse.

And her face starts to fall, and I know she feels really guilty about choosing Peeta over me, but I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear her list all the reasons why Peeta is better than me, and so I cut her off. And I tell her that she was in the Hunger Games, what, three weeks? I've been at war _three_ _years_. And she killed two or three kids because she had to, because that's what she needed to do to survive. When kids die on my watch it's called collateral damage and it's because of a miscalculation or bad planning or some stupid mistake. And it's my fault. It's _my_ fault. And who did she even lose in the Games? Rue? I've lost so many people—my friends, my comrades. Almost every one in District 12. I watched them all die. I watched them _burned_ and tortured and, and…

And that's when I stop, and I tell myself it's because I don't want to sound like a whiny bitch but really it's because I'm afraid my voice will break. And I squeeze my eyes shut trying to block out the images, the memories, the list of dead marching towards me and around me, threatening to choke me with their pain and their loss and their accusation because it's all my fault. Because I wasn't good enough, quick enough, smart enough to keep them alive.

"Gale," Katniss whispers, and there's something in her voice that makes me look up at her. There are tears glittering in her eyes, and that shocks me more than anything because I've never seen Katniss cry. "I didn't know. I didn't know…" she says, and suddenly she's leaning down and wrapping her arms around my neck, and in her warmth she doesn't have to finish her sentence because I know what she means: I didn't know you felt that way. I didn't know you were going through this. I didn't know you needed me. I didn't know.

And I just sit there for a while, feeling the warmth of Katniss's arms around me and hearing her shaky breathing as she tries to hold back her tears, and I keep my eyes closed and try to be thankful to have my friend back. And then I try to let some of the bitterness go.

And after sitting there for a few minutes, Katniss gets her breathing under control, and I can feel her grip loosen. She lets go and looks down at me again.

"Now," she says, and all the anger is gone from her voice. "Tell me about Madge."

And with guilt coiling in my gut and a blush clawing up my neck, I tell Katniss that I kissed Madge.

"You kissed her?" Katniss says, and her voice is incredulous.

"Yeah," I say, and now I definitely feel uncomfortable. "I've liked her for a while now, and I don't know, I just did it."

And Katniss just gives me this look, and it's this strange mix of understanding and pity and something like amusement. And then she confuses me even more when she sits down next to me with a sigh and tells me that the spontaneous kiss doesn't work for me.

And she must see that I'm pretty confused because she explains by bringing up the way I kissed her after she came back from her first Games. And then she rubs it in some more by telling me that not only was it completely spontaneous, but that then I never even said anything about it afterwards.

"And that's why you chose Peeta?" I say dubiously. "Because I kissed you spontaneously?"

"No, dummy. I mean that you can't just kiss a girl and expect her to work everything out for herself. You actually have to talk to her. Tell her how you feel."

And I tell her that she's the dummy because I kissed her, which means I _showed_ her how I felt. I didn't need to talk about it. And I also say that, if she hadn't noticed, I made Madge cry, and that I think that means we're beyond talking about my _feelings_. And what I really want to say is that only girls like Peeta Mellark talk about their feelings anyways.

And Katniss, damn it she's so quick, she asks me why Madge started crying anyways if all I did was kiss her.

And I figure since I'm being honest, I might as well get the whole thing out now. And so I tell Katniss that I did a little more than kiss Madge. And when Katniss starts to lift her eyebrows, I don't know, it all kind of comes out in a rush, and I tell her that I'm pretty sure Madge thought I didn't know it was her.

Katniss's eyebrows are lifted so high they've disappeared under her side-swept bangs. "So she thought you were just kissing some random girl…" she trails off, and when I don't respond she finally gets it. "She thought you were…looking for a lay," she chokes on the last words, and I would grin at her awkwardness if I didn't feel so horrible.

"I don't know," I say again. "She said a lot of things after. About me still loving you and how she isn't a wh-," I can't bring myself to say the word whore so I change tack, "how she isn't like that. And then, well, then she slapped me and ran off crying."

"She slapped you and ran off crying," Katniss repeats.

"Basically."

"So let me get this straight," Katniss starts. "You like Madge so you kissed her, but Madge thinks you're in love with me and you only kissed her to forget about me." She looks at me expectantly.

"Erm, yes. More than kissed. But that's the general idea," I say.

And Katniss just kind of looks at me like I'm the biggest fool in the world, which I can't really help but agree with. But it's funny because there's the hint of a little smile playing around the corners of her lips, and it makes me think that maybe, just maybe she's enjoying this a little bit. Like it's her and me and we're on another adventure together.

And eventually Katniss says, "Gale, I think you need my help."

And I must be really desperate to fix things with Madge because I nod in agreement even though I'm pretty sure Katniss is the last person I want to be taking advice from about a girl.

And then Katniss looks me up and down critically, and like the painfully honest person she is, she says, "I have an idea, but, um, maybe you should shower first."

Part III

"Gale?" I say, my eyes going wide. And I could kick myself because my words don't sound angry or accusing, just tired. Because I _am_ tired. And I look like shit and I feel like shit and I don't want Gale to see me this way.

"Oh, crap. Hey, Madge," Gale falters. "I, uh, didn't know you would be home so soon."

"Then what are you doing here?" I ask, and my voice is hollow. And my insides are hollow too.

"I, um, I…" he puts down the wrench and takes a deep breath. "I came to apologize."

"To apologize?" I say, and I feel so empty and ugly and tired that it doesn't really seem all that important.

And just when I thought Gale Hawthorne couldn't break my heart any more, he says, "Yeah for kissing you last night. I was way, _way_ out of line."

"You're sorry you kissed me?" I say, and my voice sounds strangled.

"Er, yeah. Total mistake. I'm really sorry," he says like he's trying to reassure me.

And I can't believe he said he's sorry he kissed me. Not he's sorry he ripped my dress or treated my like a whore or made me cry, but that he's sorry he kissed me. And even though I know he doesn't like me like that, it still hurts. God, it hurts. And I feel so empty and exposed and horrified, and I just stand there staring at Gale with the blood draining from my face.

"So anyways, I just wanted to apologize for that kiss last night," he says again, and I guess he really wants me to feel like dirt. "Clearly I wasn't thinking straight at all."

"You weren't thinking straight?" I say faintly, and my whole body starts to tremble.

"Yeah, absolutely," he replies. "I would never have done that otherwise."

"Right," I say, my voice a little higher pitched than usual, and all I want to do is hold it together until he leaves. "Well you apologized so you should probably go."

"Yeah sure, in a second," he says. "But first I want to show you something." And I can't do anything but stand there, empty and pale and shaking. "Look!" Gale says, and he reaches over and flips the switch on my ventilation system.

A blast of cool air passes between us as the system comes to life.

And Gale turns to me with this beautiful, beaming smile of pride. And I just stare at him, frozen, unable to speak because he cracked my heart down the middle and then did the nicest thing anyone has done for me in years.

He takes one look at me and the smile slides off his face.

"I fixed your vents. They were broken for so long, and I know you can't afford it-" he explains in a rush, his eyes darting around nervously.

"Your vents, Madge," he repeats, "I thought you wanted them fixed-"

And I burst into tears.

"Whoa, shit, Madge," he says. He's in front of me in two strides, his hands on either side of my face.

"Tell me what happened. Tell me what I did. I can turn them off if you want," he tries, his voice panicked. And it's so painful and so sweet that I just shake my head and cry harder. And then I bury my face in Gale's chest and sob and sob, and I can feel the wetness soaking through to his skin.

"Seriously, please, Madge, I thought you'd like it," he says frantically. "I'll turn them off if you like. I just wanted to say sorry, that's all, for ki-."

"Don't!" I lift my head from his chest and stamp my foot.

"What?" he says bewildered.

"Don't say it again! Just don't say it again!" I cry, and then I'm back to clinging to his top and sobbing into his chest.

"Madge-" he starts.

"Just don't," I plead, and my voice is muffled against the fabric of his shirt, "I know! You're sorry you kissed me! Just please, please don't say it again."

Part IV

And then it finally hits me.

That even when I'm trying to tell her how I feel, I can't seem to do it right.

"Madge," I say, and I gently lift her face so she's looking at me.

Her face is flushed and her eyes teary. And with her pink cheeks and her mussed hair and her cute little hiccoughs as she tries to stop her tears, I know that it's now or never.

I push the hair out of her face, and then I say the words clearly to make sure she understands: "Madge, I'm not sorry that I kissed you. I'm sorry _how_ I kissed you."

There's a long pause, and I know my heart is in my throat and my hope is in her hands.

"What?" Madge breathes out finally, and her lips part in surprise. And I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and kiss her pouty lips until she's crying and gasping my name.

But instead I take a deep breath. "I've wanted to kiss you for a while now. And last night I was just so angry when I saw you with Preston that I, I… just did it—all in the wrong way. And what I should have done is tell you that I know I'm not good enough and I know you deserve better, but Madge, I want you to be with me."

And I can't breath by the end of my little speech, and I'm pretty sure I left out a lot of the things I wanted to say, and I'm actually afraid of looking at Madge because I'm so sure I screwed it all up, so I close my eyes and I hope and I pray and-

"Yes," Madge says.

"What?" I say, my eyes flying open.

"Yes," she says again. Her eyes are closed but I can see the shadow of a smile playing at the edge of her lips. "Yes, Gale Hawthorne, I'll be with you."

"Really?" I say, staring at her searchingly.

Madge opens her eyes, wide and blue and beautiful, and she's really smiling now. "Yes," she says again, and I don't need to be told twice.

Part V

This time when Gale kisses me, it's perfect.

His hands are gentle as they cup my face, and his lips are slow, so slow, and agonizingly tender. He nibbles the corner of my mouth and then moves to my lips. I shiver, and he pulls my lower lip into his mouth, sucking it gently.

I feel warmth spreading through my limbs and I'm melting into Gale's arms and all I can feel are his lips moving slowly, gently against mine.

And I don't care that he's changed his mind and I don't care that he never hinted that he liked me before. I don't care. I don't care about anything except the soft grey of his eyes and the hope in his voice when he told me he wanted to be with me. And I know that this time it's real, it's actually real, his words and his feelings and his lips sweet on mine, teasing and tempting and full of promises.

And I want to be closer, so much closer, so I snake my arms up Gale's chest and thread my fingers in his hair. Gale makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and I sigh when his tongue enters my mouth, hot and full and deep. And I don't even try to stop myself from moaning, and it feels like it all melts away: my longing and my loneliness and pain.

One of Gale's hands moves to my waist, tugging me closer and the other is sliding up my back, pressing me into his chest. His hand reaches my neck, my jaw, my cheek, splaying in my hair and drawing me into him, his length and his heat and his pulse. His lips are like a drug on mine, slow and hungry and hot. And I can feel my hands curling with pleasure at the base of his neck and hot, liquid warmth pooling inside me.

Then he's moving, his nose grazing my jaw, his lips hot at my throat and his hands at my back pressing into me as I rock against him in time with his kisses. His lips burn across my collarbone, along my shoulder, into my curls, and then back to my lips. I rake my nails through his hair, and Gale groans. His kisses become harder, more aggressive, scraping teeth and needy moans, and his breathing is ragged as his hand slips under the hem of my dress and slides up my leg.

"Gale," I whisper, and he shudders, kissing me more firmly. And I'm overwhelmed by his heat and his taste and his hands and the desire rushing through my body like liquid fire. I let my head fall back, gasping for air. And all I can hear is my own breathy moan as Gale pulls my earlobe into his mouth, biting it and laving it with his tongue. And then his lips are hard on mine and his hands are at my waist, fisting my dress, dragging it along the curve of my hip, ruching the fabric up over my thigh.

And his other hand is like fire moving up the skin of my leg and the curve of my spine, and then Gale's fingers are hot at the base of my neck and he's unzipping my dress, and I tense.

Gale freezes, and I could kick myself for hesitating.

My eyes are screwed shut and I can't bear to look at him, and all I can do is wince and say, "I'm sorry."

And then Gale, still breathing hard, is zipping my dress back up, and his voice is no more than a breath in my ear, "No, I'm sorry."

And then he places a warm, tender kiss at the base of my neck, and I realize that it really is all right.

Slowly, gently he moves up my throat, my pulse, my jaw—warm, soft, _sucking_ kisses. And with each kiss he breathes into my skin: _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry _until I'm sighing and gasping and melting away.

And then he wraps his arms around me and just holds me.

He doesn't accuse me or ask anything of me or say anything at all. And with my face cradled in his neck and my arms on his chest, my senses are full of his smell and his feel and his warmth. And my eyes start to prickle again because I can't remember the last time someone held me like this: warm and enveloped and _safe_. And not alone. At last, not alone.

And all of the confusion and questions and "what changed your mind"s and "are you sure"s die on my lips. And we just stand like that for a long time, our heads together, our bodies merged, our breaths even and mingling.

And I realize that for the first time in years, I'm happy.

…

A/N: MOCKINGJAY SPOLIERS!

So I get the feeling we all abhorred _Mockingjay_. I know I did. I mean, Gale is not some angry, mass-murdering man-whore! Well, he kind of is in my story, but that's _because_ of the war—not because of his natural tendencies that just come out in war. (Though I will say, I was all like "go, Gale!" when I found out that he got to make out on the slag heap. Get it, get it!) And he certainly would not prance around in District 2 on some smarmy job! Frankly, I think the crash-and-burn of Gale's personality was just a cop out so SC could get Katniss and Peeta together without feeling guilty. LAME! Also, side note, their kids have grey eyes and blond hair and then brown hair and blue eyes?…puh-_lease_, that is the most clichéd and genetically improbable thing I have ever read in my life! Gah! Anyways, if any of you liked the book, I'd love to hear why, because aside from Finnick's wedding and the fact that Katniss and Peeta finally did it, I saw no redeeming qualities to this book! Meh.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **So I got a ton of interesting feedback on MJ. Some of you hated it and some of you loved it, and all of you made me think about it. And what I figured out is that I might have liked MJ if I hadn't gone in with so many expectations about the characters and how I thought they would act. I don't know, maybe if it was a stand-alone novel I would have felt differently about it. Though honestly, I still think the book is pretty dark. As horrible as mankind can be, we do have redeeming qualities and moments of transcendence, and I didn't really get that from MJ.

Anyway, thanks for all of your food for thought! And thank you for all of the lovely reviews! Wow, you guys are awesome and have inspired me to be better about reviewing everything I read. Major props to **KenoshaChick**, yeah I'm all about characters doing it!, **pk**, I'm happy you liked the chapter, **windyday**, haha glad you liked Gale dissing girly Peeta, **She's Classy**, really great points and thanks for sharing your personal experience; it definitely made me think more deeply about the book, **IsForWinners**, you always have the best and most encouraging reviews!, also, I think you might like this chapter based on your question ;), **roj**, thanks for the tip, should it be anyway?, **StillOnCloud9**, thanks for two awesome reviews, and I totally agree with you about MJ, **MorningxLight**, don't worry, the story isn't over yet, **Hgteampeeta**, thanks and I'm glad you're happy :D, **Medea Smyke**, I know, we all just want these two to be happy!, **DemigodWiththeBread**, love the fan girl sighs and simultaneous awwws—too funny, **grrlinterrupted**, I wish I had a Gale for myself too!, and **Kid on FanFiction**, thanks for the review!

Sorry I haven't been doing personal replies; I really have no time with packing and moving and ordering furniture, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate your comments!

And to my lurkers, who read and don't review: don't worry; I think you guys are pretty cool too.

And now here it is, my longest chapter yet…

Chapter 8

Part I: 14 days left.

My days aren't all that different, now that I'm with Gale. I still study in the mornings and go to school during the day and work at the bar at night. But my life, my life is completely different. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like there's sunshine here in the Underground. The long hours and the tough customers and the tedious reading, none of that really bothers me anymore. And there's this weight, this heaviness in my heart, that just dissolved the moment Gale put his arms around me for the first time.

Everything really is the same, and yet, there's been some kind of shift now that I have someone to share it all with. Like sometimes when I come back to my place from a lecture, Gale will be there, waiting for me. And we don't even do anything. I still go for my shower and get dressed for work, and he'll go to the kitchen and warm something up for dinner. And then we'll eat together and talk about our days, and then he'll go home and I'll go to the bar. And it's just dinner and it's just conversation, but somehow, it feels like I'm actually coming home when he's there. Like there's this warmth in my life that wasn't there before. And I've noticed that the cold, tough exterior I've held around myself for so long is gradually melting away.

And it doesn't even feel like a new relationship, all awkward conversation and uncertainty. I've been in love with Gale for so long that I guess I know a lot about him already. And Gale, with his hunter instincts and army training, is pretty good at observing people, and sometimes he seems to know more about me than I know about myself.

I still make startling discoveries about him every now and then though, like how he takes his army duties really seriously even though he hates the war. And so often in the afternoons he'll come by after a meeting or a training session, and we'll sit together at the table, me with my books on fusion theory and him with his sheaf of reports from the front lines, and we don't need to talk because we'll both be studying silently together for a while.

I've learned how much Gale loves his family. I always knew they were close, considering all he used to do for them in District 12, but we spend a fair amount of time at his mother's house, and it's been another thing entirely to see them together. I'm continually amazed at how Gale will sit for hours, patiently working through homework problems with Vick. Or how he wrestles Rory and wins every time, but somehow still encourages him and teaches him to be the man of the house. Or how he lets Posy climb all over him and pull his ears and braid his hair without complaining. In fact, he's usually laughing along. Or how all three kids idolize Gale—following him around the house, vying for his attention, looking for his approval when they try new things—and Gale doesn't seem to realize it; he just worships them right back.

And I've learned how much he helps his mom. Often when I stop by, Gale will be folding a load of laundry or putting the kids to bed. And sometimes I'll join them in the kitchen, and we'll all bake bread together. These are some of my favorite times. Laughing with the kids, getting advice from Gale's mom, sneaking dough from the bowl. And Gale whispering in my ear that he loves me here, as part of his family. And my face warms and I can't help but smile and duck my head, and then he'll whisper how he loves my blush when he says things like that.

The first time he did that, I retaliated by flicking flour at him while his mom was looking away. And that's when I learned that Gale likes to win. Because as soon as his mom stepped out of the kitchen, Gale was laughing and grabbing me by the waist and backing me into a corner and smudging flour all over my chin and my cheeks and my nose and my forehead until I couldn't breathe trying to hold in my laughter. And to seal his victory he pressed me up against the wall and put his floury hands on either side of my face, and then he proceeded to kiss me until my lips were swollen and my hair a mess and I couldn't protest any more. And by the time his mom walked back in, he was backing away with this huge, victorious grin on his face, and I couldn't even strike back because his smile is so rare and so blindingly beautiful that it left me speechless.

And that's when I learned that happiness suits Gale. His smile and his laughter are like treasures to me, and it's sad because most people never get to see them. And I feel so unbelievably blessed to get to see him in these unguarded moments: studying his reports or spending time with his family or holding me in the circle of his arms and murmuring impossibly sweet words into my hair. And all the while I'm learning new things about him and holding his hand as we walk to his house and sighing into his lips and running my hands through his hair, I try to swallow the ache building in my chest because we only have 14 days left.

Part II: 14 days left.

I always used to wonder what it would feel like, when I would see a guy on the front lines looking at a picture of his girl back home. What would it be like to actually have someone waiting for you, praying for you, longing for you to come home? What it would be like to have something to live for beyond the war and the rebellion and the hope of establishing a peaceful world so others could have a happy future. What it would feel like to know that that future could be for you too.

I always used to wonder what it would be like, but I never imagined that it would actually happen to me. That I would find someone who cares about me. And it's funny because I still can't believe that Madge feels the same way about me as I feel about her. Like every time I look at her there's this pressure in my chest and it just builds and builds until all I can do is pull her into my arms. Or the way just seeing her, talking with my mom or coming home from school or even exhausted after a long night of work, makes me feel light as a feather. Or the way I can't help but smile when she pouts because I can reach things on the top shelf that she can't. Or the way I can't swallow properly when her softness and her curves press against me when we kiss.

I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world to have Madge. And I keep thinking that one day she'll see me for what I really am, and she'll be off running. And I don't understand it, but she seems to like all the things that I try to hide from her, the things I think make me inferior to her. Like sometimes I get embarrassed when I fix things in front of her, like the one time I needed to mend the broken coil in my mom's oven, because I know that she would have just paid someone back in District 12 to repair it. But Madge wasn't ashamed at all; instead she watched me the whole time it took me to fix the coil, and she even tried to hand me the parts I needed. And afterwards, when I was done, she told me she was proud of me for being able to fix the oven. And when I told her I didn't really know what I was doing, just fiddling around with it until I got it right, she gave me the sweetest smile and a kiss on the cheek, and I threw her over my shoulder and carried her squeaking in protest out of the kitchen to hide my embarrassment and my pleased grin.

Or like today I had a really tough training session, and I want to stop by Madge's place even though it's pretty late at night because I just want to see her and forget about my horrible day. I hadn't really noticed, but I guess I must have bruised my back during training because we're just having a regular conversation and Madge mentions that I keep shifting in my seat trying to get comfortable. I'm pretty sure that I'm alright, but Madge insists on rubbing my back, which is fine, actually, more than fine, until she goes to get a bottle of cream she uses to ease the tension in her legs after a long shift at the bar. And suddenly, she's off rummaging in her room and I'm sitting on the couch feeling inexplicably nervous because I don't want to take off my shirt and have Madge see my back.

I never really cared if Katniss or the other guys saw all the scars on my back and torso during the war; everyone on the front lines has been wounded in some way, and honestly, we have much more important things to worry about there anyway. The girls I was with during the war, well, I would either keep my shirt on or make sure it was too dark for them to really see me.

And I don't want Madge to see me either. Because I hate the way the Capitol has disfigured me, scratched and gouged and whipped my body, criss-crossing it with lash marks and shrapnel wounds and burns and a bullet hole: souvenirs of all the most painful moments of my life, a permanent reminder of the war not only seared into my mind, but into my flesh too.

I've never shown them to anyone who's really important to me. But when Madge walks back into the room with her bottle of anti-inflammatory cream, I don't know how I can tell her that I don't want her to see me. So I let her sit behind me, and I pull off my shirt, and I feel so exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and I'm so tense as I feel her eyes roaming over my back that I'm actually shaking. But Madge doesn't gasp or cry or ask any questions. She doesn't say a word, just takes dollops of the cream and rubs them into my back, running her hands over my cuts and scars and gently warming and loosening the muscles of my back with her hands until I feel myself start to relax and the pain starts to ebb away.

And when eventually her hands start to slow down and I figure she's almost done, I wonder if she really isn't going to say anything, if she's not going to acknowledge the progression of war mapped into the skin of my back, and I'm relieved that she didn't say anything, but I'm also worried because she might be thinking that this isn't what she expected and that this isn't what she wants.

But the thing about Madge, and the thing about me too, I guess, is that she doesn't really need to use words for me to know what she's feeling. And when Madge is finally done meticulously wiping off her hands and screwing the lid of the bottle back on, she surprises me by wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my shoulder blade, right on this scar I got when a rebel doctor dragged out a dagger of shrapnel. And she places a kiss on the bare skin of my shoulder, her lips half on the scar and half on smooth, untouched skin. And then she lays her head on the scar again, her body flush against my back. And she doesn't have to say anything, her fingers running lightly along my spine and her breath warm on my neck, because in her touch and in her kiss and in her silence, I can hear and I can feel and I know that she doesn't mind my scars at all.

Part III: 11 days left.

Tonight is one of my favorite kinds of nights. I'm not working at the bar, and Gale doesn't have any late meetings. We're sitting on my tiny sofa, me leaning against one armrest and highlighting some notes, my legs stretched out towards Gale, who's cleaning and repairing some of his army gear. I feel peaceful and content and relaxed, for once, because I have nowhere to be.

Eventually, I put down my books and tuck my knees under me, scooting over towards Gale. I lean my head against his shoulder and just watch him as he rebuckles the leather on the holster he just polished. I do that sometimes, just watch Gale while he's in the middle of working on something, and he must be used to it by now because he doesn't seem to mind. I don't know why I do it; there's just something about his eyes when he's concentrating really intensely, and there's also something about his hands. His fingers are so long, and almost delicate, his fine movements deliberate and dexterous.

And as I'm watching his fingers ply the tough leather with ease, I notice a hair-thin scar slicing along the knuckle of his right thumb to his wrist. And even though the scar, white against his olive skin, is barely visible, it reminds me of all the wounds layered over his chest and back, and I remember the throbbing ache I felt when I saw them and realized how much pain Gale has endured in his twenty-two years.

And suddenly I have this urgent need to know the story behind each and every scar on his body, from the painful looking bullet hole, a dark stain under his right collarbone, to this fine crease slivering across his knuckle—when, where, and who did this to him.

And I don't really think, just reach out my hand and place it over the holster, stilling Gale's movements. And I lift my lips to his ear and whisper, "Tell me about the war."

Gale immediately tenses, his eyes hooded and alert.

"It doesn't have to be anything significant," I soothe. "Just something, anything." And I quietly run my other hand through the hair over his ear, just the way he likes.

"You don't want to hear those things," he answers, his words tight and the hands in his lap opening and closing spasmodically.

"You already told me about Thom," I remind him. He doesn't answer, though I see a muscle jump near his temple. "I'm stronger than you think, you know," I add. "Let me share this burden with you."

"I don't think I can, Madge," he says, looking down, his body trembling and his voice sad.

"Let me go first then," I say. "Let me tell you about my parents." And the minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I haven't told anyone about what happened to my parents, only vague references to losing them in the past three years.

"Your parents?" Gale says, shifting his gaze towards me.

"Only if you want to hear," I say, suddenly hesitant.

"Madge," Gale says, turning towards me fully, "Anything you want to say, you know I want to hear it."

And the look in his eyes is so genuine that I nod, and I know I can't turn back now.

So I take a deep breath and I rest my head against Gale's shoulder so I won't have to look into his eyes, and with our fingers entwined in my lap, I start to tell Gale about my parents.

I don't leave out any details. And I start at the beginning, at the firebombing of District 12. Where we didn't leave my mother behind because the bombing was so sudden that we didn't have to time save her. No, we left her behind because she was too weak to move, and if we had carried her with us, all three of us would have been caught in the flames. So we didn't even try to save her. Just closed our eyes and our hearts and told ourselves we would think about it later, when we were safe. And then we ran, my dad and me, towards the train station. And my dad knew that the Capitol wouldn't want to destroy the rail lines so we snuck up to one of the boxcars, and my dad went forward and handed the Peacekeeper standing there all of the money in his pockets to let us hide on the train.

The Peacekeeper took the money and let us on the train, and there we hid like cowards behind some empty crates as bombs rained down on our home and on our town and the people around us turned to ash. And all I could think of was my mom, her once beautiful blond hair now orange with flames, and the screams of pain when she used to have a bad migraine horribly amplified as the fire slowly swallowed her limbs.

Hours later, the Peacekeepers loaded onto the train, filling the more comfortable front compartments, and we started moving towards an unknown destination. Eventually we found ourselves in District 11, and when we tried to slip off the train in the middle of the night, a young farmhand stumbled upon us. Luckily, like many in the district, he was sympathetic to the rebellion, and so he smuggled us to a safe house in his cart.

And that's when we got deeply involved in the rebellion. In the cover of darkness and in shadowy corners my dad got in contact with some his friends around the country and in the Capitol, planning and strategizing and disseminating information and coordinating with rebel elements in D11. And I worked in secret too, spinning bandages at night and gathering food for those who were injured and rationing out the small cache of morphling that we had managed to bring from home.

And the Peacekeepers in D11 were so much harsher than they were in District 12. My father and I had to live in the damp cellar of a safe house, and we could only travel around at night, hidden under the turnips and cabbages and radishes of the farmers as they drove to and from the fields. And one night, my dad and I were separated, hidden amongst piles of hay as a large group of carts moved from one of the fields to the town center. And I heard one of the carts stopped for a random check, and I had no idea it was the cart carrying my father until I heard two sharp shots cracking in the cool night air, one for the cart driver and one for my dad.

And then I smelled the burning, smoky scent of fire as the Peacekeepers started setting the carts ablaze, burning all for the crimes of two. And I couldn't move and I couldn't scream and I couldn't run from the flames for fear of being caught. All I could do was cover my mouth with my hand to filter out the smoke, and I lay there as still as the dead, trying not to panic, waiting for the heat of the flames to lick my skin. All around me, I could hear other rebels trying to escape the fire, but as soon as they would move, they would reveal their hiding places, and the Peacekeepers would shoot them and anyone else in their carts.

And somehow amidst the flames and the commotion and the screams, the driver of my cart managed to slip us towards the edge of the group, and the two of us melted into the darkness and ran and ran until we reached our safe house. And there I immediately started packing what little I had, my hands shaking and my eyes wet, and the next morning at dawn I slipped out of the town towards a rumored rendezvous point for those attempting to reach the fabled District 13. And I left behind a district-wide crackdown, kicked in doors and nighttime raids and heads knocked in with rifle butts, as the Peacekeepers started clamping down on rebel activity. And I also left behind my dad, a patch of his blood darkening the cobblestone path leading to town, and his mutilated body hung in the town square, a reminder and a warning against rebellion.

…

I'm in shock by the time Madge finishes her story. Shock and horror. Because I thought I knew what it's like to lose a parent, to feel helpless and overwhelmed and alone. But I never had to choose between my own life and my mom's when District 12 was burning. I didn't have to hear my dad die without even being able to move a muscle to prevent it. I never had to see his body, strung up at the whim of the Capitol.

And I never had to feel guilty for his death. I can hear the guilt in Madge's voice as she chokes on her words. I can hear her fear of the dark places she thinks are inside of her because she left them behind, because she didn't stand up and didn't save them. But I know a thing or two about survival, and I know that she didn't have a choice, that it's a miracle that she's even alive right now.

But I don't say anything because I know she wouldn't believe me if I told her those things. Instead, I turn towards her and bring my hands to her face, drawing her into my chest and holding her as tightly as I can without physically crawling inside her and filling the aching hole in her heart.

And she feels so small and fragile in my arms. And this is my girl, I think fiercely, I want to protect her from pain and fear and loneliness. I want her to be happy and laughing and to have everything in the world.

And so when she whispers, "Please tell me something about the war, Gale," I know I can't say no.

But I don't really know what to tell her. I could just tell her the truth. That most of the time, it isn't all that bad. Just drills and prep and moving gear around. And at the end of a long day you get to relax with the other guys and complain about the food packs and talk about how much you hate the Capitol. And the planning isn't all that bad either, when everything is still theoretical and the collateral damage is still hypothetical.

And I know Madge probably wants to know all of those things, but not right now. And then I can't help it, I think about the first time I used a flamethrower. I was leading my platoon up an embankment, and we needed to clear a path quickly. I still remember the hiss of flames blooming in the dark and the smell of gasoline as I waved the massive wall of fire back and forth in front of me, and it was almost beautiful. But then we had to crawl up the embankment, pull ourselves up on our elbows through the burnt remains of those I'd just killed, crunch over the vestiges of men that were alive a few minutes before, their limbs and their screams turned to dust in an instant.

And then I remember the first time I really killed someone. Not just faceless soldiers shooting from atop a building or from inside a hovercraft. No, the first time I put a gun right up to someone's temple and pulled the trigger. He was just a kid. The Capitol had taken hostages from the rebels, usually young family members or loved ones, and they had brainwashed them, warped their minds to hate the rebellion with almost frenetic passion. And we didn't have the money or the resources or the knowledge to rehabilitate any of them. So when a wild-eyed kid, probably not much older than Rory, snuck into our camp with a bomb strapped to his chest, we had no choice but to execute him. My platoon had brought him down, and so I received the order to shoot him. I couldn't ask any of the men to do it, so I called for the kid and cocked my own gun. They brought him in front of me, his hands tied to together and his eyes suddenly docile. He looked like a kid who had just got in trouble for skipping school or something, hardly a threat. But orders are orders, and we couldn't risk a sleeper in our midst, so I lifted up my gun and shot the kid in the head. He fell like rock, and the light just went out of his eyes, easy as blowing out a candle. One second he was there. And the next, it was just me still breathing, standing alone.

But because Madge told me about her family, I don't know, I keep thinking about Bristel, and so I decide to tell her about him. I tell her how we were in the same crew when I worked the mines in District 12, and we escaped together when the bombs came. But once we both enlisted in the war, we didn't see much of each other. He wasn't much of a soldier so he had signed up to drive transport trucks, and occasionally I'd see him when he brought a shipment of food or weapons to the front lines. He was always good for a laugh, Bristel, always smiling even when the world around him burned.

Anyway, it was in the middle of the night when it happened. I was digging a trench with some of my men, fortifying our position with barbed wire and machine gun nests before the Capitol got wind of our location. Suddenly, the crackling of the walkie-talkie in my ear told us that a transport convoy was being attacked a few klicks from our position.

We mobilized as fast as we could, but by the time we got there, only the charred remains of the trucks were left, smoldering in the dark. We set up a perimeter and a meager first-aid tent, and then we started looking for survivors. We found a couple of guys with some pretty bad burns, but almost everyone else was dead, in unrecognizeable pieces scattered over the hillsides or splattered on the truck windshields.

I was kicking in the door of the last truck when a young soldier ran up to me, asking if I was from District 12. When I told him I was, he led me towards the med tent where I saw Bristel, lying on his back with a bandage on his head, smiling.

"Hey man," I said, but when I stepped closer I realized that his eyes were really glassy and he was smiling at me without recognition.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked the soldier.

"Just sit with him for a while," he answered with a shrug, "Until he goes."

So I sat down next to Bristel, and when he finally focused on me, his eyes widened in surprise.

"I thought you died," he said, but before I could say anything he babbled on, "You were so sick and so thin. I was so sure you starved to death. Those sores on your body, man, I didn't think you'd make it."

And that's when I realized that Bristel didn't recognize me at all, but thought I was his older brother who had died of starvation when Bristel was just a kid. Well, he didn't really die of starvation; actually he was sick and there was no way to save him so he stopped eating because he didn't want to waste what little food his family had. And with the dirt on my face and my olive skin and grey eyes, I can see why Bristel would confuse me for his long-dead brother.

"It's nice to see you, man," Bristel says, and his eyes are shining. "My brother at my bedside. I never would have thought. Are mom and dad here too?" And I don't know what to say because Bristel was alone when I knew him, his brother and his parents long dead because he couldn't hunt the way I could and he was too young for the mines for too many years.

"Yeah, they're here," I say, my voice cracking. "Just close your eyes; they'll be here in a second."

"No way," Bristel says, and I can hear him fading. "I want to get a proper look at you. I can't believe you're here."

And Bristel keeps talking about things he and his brother used to do as kids, get water from the well and play catch with an old pair of socks wrapped into a ball. And eventually he's so far gone that he actually thinks he sees his parents over my shoulder, and who knows, maybe he does. And he tells them all kinds of things. How he loves them and how he's sorry and how he wishes he could just get up so he could give them a hug. And there are tears in his eyes and it feels like I'm intruding on a private moment, but I can't get up and leave him, not until the end.

And eventually his words became incoherent and his breathing got really harsh and erratic. And then his eyes closed and his grip on my hands loosened, and he was gone. Just like that—he was gone, a smile still lingering on his lips.

…

It breaks my heart to hear Gale talk about his friend like that. I grip his hands throughout the story, silently letting him know that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere.

And when he's done I want to be close to him, to be part of him, to press myself into him until he forgets all the grief and anguish in his heart. So I climb into his lap and circle my arms around his neck, and I place kisses on his throat and on his chin and on his cheeks and his forehead and his ears and his lips until he grips my waist and kisses me back, his lips more desperate than usual. And we stay like that for a long time, me pressing myself into his chest, and his lips urgent on mine, his fingers digging into me fiercely.

And when he finally pulls back, our breathing hard and our faces flushed, I see that his eyes are rimmed with red. But behind the pain and the desperation, there's gratitude in them too.

Part IV: 9 days left

Tonight I'm putting a dead bolt on Madge's door. She made the mistake this morning of telling me how scared she was that day I broke into her place to fix her ventilation system, and that's when I realized it was terrifyingly easy for me to get in without a keycard.

Madge had said it almost as a joke, laughing at how horrifying it would have been if a thief really had been waiting for her inside. I did not laugh and I did not find it funny, and as soon as she left for class, I bought a deadbolt and a screwdriver.

I didn't get out of my meetings until late at night; the meetings are getting longer and more intense now that the rebel forces are moving deep into Capitol territory. I came by Madge's place anyway, tools in hand. She laughed at me at first until I actually took out the deadbolt and told her I was serious. She gave me this searching look and then said I was crazy because she had nothing worth stealing. I took one look up and down her body and said that she was the crazy one if she thought I would let anyone near her as long as she looked like that. "Ugh, you're biased," is all she said with an exasperated wave of her hands.

And it kills me when she says things like that, when she betrays the cracks in her confidence. I hate that working at the bar and being mistreated for years has made Madge think that she isn't beautiful and desirable. That she doesn't deserve someone to love her and protect her. And when I look at her, I can't believe that she thinks she is the undeserving one in our relationship when I count every day I'm with her as the luckiest in my life.

So now I'm on my knees peering at the knob of the door, the only light coming from the flashlight I'm holding in my mouth. I would have preferred Madge to hold the light, but she said that she was exhausted and had some studying to do. More than anything I want Madge to do well in school so she can leave the Black Heart, so I let her go. Also, I'm still stewing over her lack of deadbolt, and I'm sure she's tired of hearing me lecture on the subject.

I can't help how upset it makes me. I've been with men at their most desperate, and therefore displaying their truest character. And the things I've seen them do to women—well, it makes my blood curdle. Hell, even I've mistreated women during the war, using them to forget about Katniss and my loneliness and the bloodstains on my hands. It kills me to imagine someone using Madge that way, someone even thinking about Madge that way. And I desperately wish that I didn't have to go back to fighting so that I could stay with Madge—just _be_ with her and hold her and, damn it, protect her, hear her laughter and smell her hair.

And after double-checking the deadbolt I head towards Madge's room so that I can see her smile indulgently and roll her eyes at my triumph of carpentry, but when I get there I see that Madge has fallen asleep, her book having slipped from her languid fingers and her face illuminated by the single candle on her bedside table.

I quietly close the book and put it away, and I'm about to blow out the candle so she can sleep properly. But then I look at Madge. Actually look at her, her skin warmed by the glow of the candle and her face softened in sleep. And I wish she were always this way: free of the tension and strain of survival.

She looks fragile and angelic, her hair a gilded halo sprawled along the pillows, and her tiny frame curled in the white sheets. I reach out a finger and trace it along the curve of her cheek. Her eyelashes flutter lightly, and I think how much it will kill me to leave her. How much I will ache for her kisses and her smiles when I'm gone.

And because I can't resist, I kick off my boots and climb into the bed next to her, and I just watch her, flickering shadows playing over her delicate features. And I can't believe that Madge could ever doubt herself, ever think that she is less than deserving of all the love and happiness in the world. And eventually the pressure in my chest becomes too much, and I gather her in my arms and pull her close, her limbs languorous in sleep.

Her eyes flicker open, still cloudy with drowsiness, and my heart clenches as she gives me a sweet little smile before snuggling into my chest.

"Madge," I say, placing my hands on her cheeks and pulling back slightly.

"Hm," she murmurs drowsily, looking up at me through her lashes.

I gently push the hair from her face, my feelings so intense that I'm trembling.

"Madge, let me love you," I whisper, a quiet prayer in the dark.

This time, she doesn't tense, and she doesn't hesitate.

"Gale," she whispers, achingly sweet, as she runs a single finger along my jaw. And before I can ask her if she's sure, I feel her lips feather light on my neck.

And in the hush of the darkness there's no need for words. There's nothing but the rustle of fabric and the silk of her skin, a brush of her hair and long, sinuous limbs wrapping around me. Drowning in the smooth planes of her back, the softness of her curves, the luxuriousness of her embrace. The caress of her kiss, the breath of her touch—soft sighs in the semi-dark. Exquisite pleasure arcing through me like lightning.

And hours later with Madge in my lap, the contours of her thighs contracting and relaxing under my hands as she rocks against me, her head thrown back and her hair a brush of silk down to her waist, her eyes closed and her pink lips parted, a single bead of sweat rolls down the flushed skin of her neck and trails between her breasts, and I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful in my life.

And after, when she wraps herself around me and whispers my name in my ear, I clutch her to me close, my hands desperate on the smooth warmth of her back, and I promise myself that I will never, ever let her go.

Part V: 3 days left.

I'm happy as I walk home, even though it's late at night and I've just finished a grueling ten hours at the bar. I'm happy because I know that I'll get to see Gale tomorrow, as soon as I wake up.

Gale has a massive meeting tonight. The entire rebel leadership spread all over the country, from the army generals to the hospital administrators to the President, are holding a teleconference tonight to go over every aspect of the rebellion and to coordinate the next steps in the war effort.

So even though I don't get to see Gale right now, and even though I know he's probably suffering through another political and bureaucratic nightmare, I'm happy because he promised he would stop by early tomorrow morning.

So I slip into the shower, a smile on my face. And because I wasn't expecting it, I'm taken totally by surprise when I've just finished lathering my skin with soap and I feel a rush of cold air as the shower door opens and a moment later I feel a kiss burning the skin of my neck.

"Gale!" I say in surprise, turning around. "What are you doing here?" And I feel this fluttery mix of joy and breathlessness and disbelief.

"Meeting ended. Wanted to see you," is all he says, his lips still hot on my collarbone.

And suddenly I see the tension in the line of Gale's shoulders and feel the urgency of his touch. "What happened? What's wrong?" I say, steadying him with my hands on his chest.

Gale buries his face in the crook of my neck, his body curving over me, and hot water rolling down his back. "Casualty reports came in. I'll tell you later. Please, just not now."

And he sounds so desperate and so sad, that I don't think twice. I don't care that my hair is wet and sticking to my body. I don't care that my skin is flushed with the steam of the shower. I don't care that I can barely breath in the heat. All I care about is Gale, my poor, aching Gale—and I want to dispel the sadness palpable in his every movement.

I run my hands down the smooth contours of his stomach, my lips suddenly on the hard muscles of his chest. Gale's breath hitches, and I don't stop, running my nails across the hot skin of his back and arching into him, offering him whatever he needs.

Gale reacts instantly, his arm tightening around me, his lips begging on mine, his hand hitching my thigh up and around his waist. He throws his weight forward, pressing me up against the wall of the shower, crushing himself against me. I put my arms around Gale's neck and pull myself up, hooking my other leg around him.

And then I hold on. Gale's lips are like fire on my neck, his hands demanding, pressing into my stomach, tangled in my hair, running up my leg. I drag my lips down Gale's throat; my teeth scrape across his collarbone. I feel him shudder, his eyes closed tight, and he grinds his hips into me, our bodies slick with heat and soap.

And I can't breathe, I can't think. All I can do is feel Gale hot and shaking in me and around me, my legs tightening convulsively around him, my nails raking on the skin of his back, a jagged moan escaping my lips as I'm overwhelmed by a torrent of sensation.

And it isn't until afterwards, when I'm kissing a soft trail down his jaw, our bodies spent, the shower a gentle rain on our backs, that I taste an unfamiliar trace of salt on his skin. And that's when I realize that I can't tell which water droplets on his cheeks are from the shower, and which are from his tears.

Part VI: 0 days left.

The weeks, the days, the hours have flown by in a rush, a haze, an unbelievable dream.

And now it's my last night. My last night of safety. My last night of freedom from war and bloodshed and death. My last night maybe ever, now that I'm going back into battle.

And my last night with Madge.

I want to make it last as long as possible—stretch the fleeting, bittersweet minutes into eighteen months worth of memories. Eighteen months worth of kisses and sighs and touches. Eighteen months worth of dreams and caresses so somehow I can bear to be away from her for so long. I want to hold onto Madge while I'm gone, preserve her in my mind like a spider trapped in a drop of amber. Remember her so that missing her won't kill me.

And so I go slowly, as unhurried and intimate as our first time. I tell myself to concentrate, to memorize every curve and plane, scent and taste, every inch of her body from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes.

I kiss my way up her arms. Remember, remember, remember the pink crescents of her nails, the translucent softness of her wrist, the dimple on her elbow. Remember the elegance of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the moan she can't help when I reach her lips.

Remember the darkening of her eyes, the arching of her back, the feel of her nails digging into my skin. Remember the scent of her hair and the feel of her curls, the taste of her lips and the way her toes curl when I say her name.

Remember the dip of her stomach, the curve of her breast, the arch of her thigh. Remember the cream of her skin, the velvet of her tongue, the satin of her touch.

Memorize every moment. Every flush of her skin, every pulse of her heart, every pant, every cry, every flutter of an eyelash. The way she bites down on her lip, the way she clutches the sheets, the way her teeth feel on my tongue.

Memorize every touch, every second, every breath, every sigh. Revere the shell of her ear and the blue of her eyes. Venerate the curve of her back and the length of her legs and the arch of her foot. Worship every inch and every instant, and lock them, ensnare them, trap them and her, in the reliquary of my mind.

And no matter how much I try, no matter how many times I kiss her and touch her and embrace her and taste her, it's not enough. Damn it, it's not nearly enough.

…

I leave the next morning without saying goodbye. I leave her, quiet and beautiful and peaceful in sleep. Pack my gear and put on my fatigues. Take one last look at her sleeping form, her curls spread along the creamy expanse of her back, her breathing gentle and soft. And I know that if I wake her up, let her come with me to say goodbye at the hovercraft, if I see her waving, tears in her eyes, if I give her one last hug and one last kiss, I know, I know I'll never be able to leave. So instead, I turn around and walk away, my heart and mind full of her, the smell of her perfume still lingering in my skin.

Part VII: 0 days left.

I imagined my last night with Gale many times. And I always thought that Gale would be desperate, frantic, full of passion and longing.

But instead he takes his time, his eyes concentrated. Starting with my hand, sucking the tips of each finger into his mouth, breathing in the scent of each palm, kissing each ridge and dip of my wrists, grazing his lips over the sweet spot in the crook of my elbow. He tastes my shoulder and twines his fingers in my hair. He nips my lips, licks my lips, kisses my lips, savors my lips, each movement, each touch delicate and deliberate, mapping and loving and worshipping my body.

His lips trace patterns up my leg, across my stomach, between my breasts, and I can't tell if his groans are from pleasure or anguish. And his hands, _oh_ his hands. The deftness of his fingers makes me sing, and the intensity of his gaze makes me cry.

And when we're done he flips me over and pushes my hair aside with the lightest of touches. Then he starts again on my shoulder, kissing a trail along my neck, and he whispers something, a breath on my throat. And it could be _hold on_ or it could be _I love you_ or it could even be my imagination, but either way it makes my eyes fill with tears. And I don't want him to see them so I bury my face in my pillow. I can't stifle my gasps though, part pain and part ecstasy, as his kisses recite a rosary down my legs, down my arms, down my back: _goodbye, goodbye, goodbye._

…

I wake with a start in the morning. And I can tell by the cold breeze on my skin that Gale is already gone.

I look for the clock in a rush, hoping that if I hurry I can still catch him before he leaves. But when I see the time, I realize that it's too late. That he's already packed his bags and loaded on the hovercraft and that he's been gone for hours.

The realization leaves me chilled and bereft. I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms protectively around myself. The room already feels empty without him. No boots at the door, no warmth at my side, no bark of laughter from the kitchen.

And then I see it on the bedside table, the white rectangle of a note. I reach for it desperately, fumbling out of the sheets to grasp it. And as soon as I read it, the words blur as my eyes fill with tears.

And that's when I know he's really gone. Gone. To war, to death, to who knows what torture and pain. He's gone.

And all he leaves behind is his scent clinging to my hair and the words of his note:

_Madge,_

_There's so much I regret about our past and so much I hope for our future. I will miss you more than I can say. Wait for me._

_Love,_

_Gale._

…

**A/N:** So usually I don't really doubt my writing, but I've never written anything like this before: emotional and sexual and (hopefully?) powerful. I would really appreciate any feedback you guys have!

Also, I was reading over my last chapter and thought my insults for Peeta were a bit lame. Moony Mellark? Dopey Doughboy? Meh. I would love to hear if any of you guys have any good alliterative aspersions for him. Trust me, even if you like Peeta, it's fun to make these up!


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hello, friends! I know it has been ages and ages! My excuse is that I started dental school this year, and let me tell you, when they say dental school is tough, they aren't kidding! Seriously, I have been completely swamped!

Anyway, I know the last chapter kind of ended on this big, tragic, romantic high (I know it's been so long, you probably don't even remember what happened last chapter!), and I totally shouldn't have ended there because I feel this chapter might be a letdown in comparison. Er, let me know what you think.

Also, of course, a massive thanks to all my wonderful reviewers. I lurrrrve you all: **Hgteampeeta, distorted realities, StillOnCloud9, KenoshaChick, IsForWinners, pk, roj, Vera Rose Nightingale, papermoth, grrlinterrupted, DemigodWiththeBread, Starprincess95, MorningxLight, MrsJamesPotter1, Solaryllis, epipole, Rinkya, katnisseverdeen4ever.**

At last:

Chapter 9

Part I. 1 year and 153 days left.

One month.

One month since Gale left. Packed his bags and wrote that note and kissed me like he would never see me again. One month. But it feels like years and years.

And it will be over a year until I see him again.

Seventeen months. Five hundred and eighteen days. Unfathomable. Interminable. Insurmountable.

I try to take everything one day at a time. Shower. Dress. School. Work.

But my stomach is a constant knot of worry, my nails bitten down to the skin. I have trouble eating, sleeping. I feel myself fading away—a ghost in the halls. Waiting, waiting. For a letter, for a call, for any kind of news. Always waiting.

Ironically, it's my job that keeps me going. I can't get too thin or look unhealthy without getting fired. So I make sure to eat a proper meal. To curl my hair and color my lips, push up my breasts so they fill out my dress.

I live for my days off when I can visit his mother's house. I play with the kids and help with the dishes, and my heart feels less heavy because having his family all around reminds me of him. I see him in the breadth of Rory's shoulders, the gentleness of Vick's eyes, the bright ring of Posy's laughter.

Sometimes, when the kids are at school or in bed, his mother will take out his last letter and read it to me. I hang on to the words, frantically trying to picture the troop movements and supply shortages and weather patterns that he describes, even though they are weeks old by the time his letter arrived. And I read her my letters from him too, though not the last few pages because those are always just for me, and just thinking about sharing them makes me blush.

The two of us stay up late and talk about how the war is progressing, stitching together a sketchy picture from the wisps of rumors and half-truths whirling and receding through the Underground like curls of smoke. We're getting deep into Capitol territory. It's only a matter of time. They can't hold on much longer. Soon we'll be free. And sometimes during these talks I feel hope, and sometimes fear, and sometimes when I'm really blessed, I'm able to smile.

But when I leave the warmth of his home, in unexpected moments, handing a drink across the bar, in the middle of lecture, riding the early-morning elevator, I think of all the terrible things that can happen to him, that could have already happened to him, and I can't breathe. My palms go instantly sweaty, my vision blurs, my heart jumps to my throat as I imagine him forgotten in a ditch, or captured and tortured, his face disfigured and destroyed like Thom. And the images are so real in my mind that it feels like prophecy, and I have to force myself not to think about it because if I did, it would kill me.

But late at night, when I'm done with work and I've finished studying and I'm alone in my bed after a long evening with his mother, the loneliness hits me like a knife in the gut, like a physical pain. And I don't care about being strong, and I don't care about soldiering on, and I don't care about surviving and striving and trying until he comes home. All I can feel is myself drowning in grief and fear and loneliness.

And I curl up in the sheets and press my face into the pillow and I call out to him in my mind, in my dreams. Gale, Gale, come back. Please, please come back.

And then I cry. Wracking, searing, razor-sharp sobs. The sobs of hopelessness. Knowing that it's only been one month. One long, impossible, heartbreaking month. Knowing that this is only just the beginning of the longest wait of my life.

Part II. 1 year and 153 days left.

I have to harden my heart, now that I'm back at war. Focus on my anger, my hatred for the Capitol. Become the soldier, the machine. Ruthless and cold. It's the only way to survive. To make the hard choices. To win.

My platoon was shipped straight to the front lines after our Underground leave. They said we were getting deep into Capitol territory, and the war would be over soon, that we might be home in time for the Harvest Festival. But the Capitol is vicious, dragging the war out to the bitter end. Killing, maiming, destroying as much as possible.

Neither side will give in. We won't surrender because we can't. Death is better than the retribution the Capitol would wield if we surrendered. And the Capitol will never yield. Even if they can't win, they won't let us win either. They would rather let the whole world burn.

The Districts are destroyed by the fighting, one by one. Fields burn and farmers die. The oceans are laced with the oil of exploded hovercrafts and burn in the night. Factories are bombed. Food lines cut off. Hovercrafts destroyed. The youth of Panem are razed to the ground, cut down by Capitol gunfire.

It's a hellish game of mutual destruction. Cut off the rebel's supplies to starve them of their resources. Kill every one so that there will be no one left to fight.

And I'm at the head of the pointless, bitter push. Every day is a vicious street-by-street slog towards the heart of the Capitol. Every night a darkness of tortuous dreams, waking to the pounding of my heart and the screams of the injured and the knowledge that one by one we will all be captured or tortured or killed.

Don't think. Don't think. Just push onward. Keep fighting. Keep planning and shooting and moving forward. Because if I think of home, if I think of what I've lost, if I think of what lies ahead, the longing and loss and fear will take me.

But at the strangest times, in the glimpse of a sliver of blue sky amidst the acrid smoke and crackling shrapnel, in the whisper of cool breeze sweeping the hair out my eyes, in the taste of water washing the ash and misery from my throat, I think of Madge. Once, when charging up a hill, guns spitting and men shouting, I felt her hand brush through my hair. Once in the hazy twilight between waking and sleeping, I heard her whisper my name. I try to convince myself the touch of her hand is just the wind, her voice just a dream. But I think that maybe, in the grime and dirt and blood of war, maybe I'm losing my mind.

And that's when I know that this war will take my life. Maybe it will take my sanity first, or maybe my limbs. But whatever way, just as it's taken my friends and my men and my youth and my soul, I know it will take me too.

And in these, my darkest moments, I give in to the weakness. I let myself think of Madge. I cling to my memories of her like a drowning man clawing towards the light. In the deepest obscurity of night I take out her letters, blackened and worn from constant handling, and I read them, clutch them, breathe in their scent, anything to remind me what I'm fighting for.

What I know I will die for.

Part III. 1 year and 67 days left.

Things begin to deteriorate in the Underground as the war drags on. People begin to starve. With all the refugees and the war effort, resources are thin. Greenhouses empty out. Livestock die off. There are no shipments coming in from anywhere.

At least not for us. The politicians and businessmen on the upper levels continue to live comfortably, even lavishly, able to pay the high price of what little food is available, able to hide and horde and play at parties, unaware of the rage and desperation festering in the dark tunnels beneath their feet. Riots tear through the Underground. People demanding food. Demanding change. Hunger. Panic. Despair.

We turn emaciated. Exhausted. Defeated. There are no more young men to run the District, to fix the broken pipes or ruined duct systems. They are all fighting. Or dead. And even when there is a man to work, there is no money to pay him.

The District grinds to a halt. Slowly, desperately we scrabble like rats in a drowning ship. Every man for himself. A meal away from death.

Plague runs rampant through the District. Horror stories of children vomiting blood. Of insides liquefied by bacteria. Of lips cracked and tongues parched and painful, pus-filled sores. There is no medicine. No provisions. Hardly any clean water. Only quarantine rooms and whispered prayers. And men coughing up their insides, leaving behind smears of blood and the taste of fear.

The Black Heart is my own personal hell. Ironically, we have never been busier than now, with all of the older men out of work. The men are surly, hopeless, drinking away their sorrows and inadequacy. Bitter eyes and angry words and groping hands.

We stopped trying to break up the fights long ago. The only rule: you break it, you pay for it. And not a day goes by that I don't hear angry shouts in a corner of the bar and the scraping of chairs being pushed back and the sound of fist on flesh.

I stopped looking at the men who fight; their eyes are always glassy and dead, or worse, filled with tears. Men without hope. Who don't care whom they're fighting because they hate themselves the most. Who welcome the pain because at least it means they are doing something.

I don't let myself look at the fighting men because I see my own despair reflected in their eyes. I just clean up the mess when they're done. Straighten the tables and push in the chairs and get on my knees with a rag to wipe up the slicks of blood, red and sticky like the lipstick of a whore.

Part IV. 1 year and 49 days left.

I lost over half my platoon today.

It was just a standard sweep through the city streets, clearing the way door by door.

And suddenly we all heard it. That strange hush that takes over even the noisiest of battlefields. Like all the gunfire and shouting and screams just fade out, and in the silence you hear that telltale whistling of a missile, the sound of death approaching, too quickly to avoid, but not too quickly to be anticipated.

With the explosion all the noise comes back in a rush, like the volume on the television dialed up to its highest setting. The side of the building collapsing, rubble and glass flying, the sharp sting of debris against bare skin forming a lattice of tiny cuts, the sound of men shrieking and groaning. But it's the sounds you don't hear that are the worst—the silence where before there was life.

We can't stop to register what has happened. Capitol forces swarm our position, with their guns and their flames, not even having mercy on those mangled and writhing, those that are already dead.

It takes us almost twelve hours to clear the area, and by the time we're done there is nothing left but scorched earth, piled with bodies and soaked with blood. Even those of us who survived look dead, our faces covered with ash and our eyes hooded and haunted.

It starts to rain as we bury the bodies, dirty water accumulating in the hastily dug hole. We roll the bodies in quickly, only taking a moment to grab the dog tags of those we know, afraid to look too closely, to let ourselves realize what we've lost. We throw the Capitol soldiers in as well. Not out of respect, but because we've learned that rotting bodies all smell the same, regardless of which side their spirits were on in life.

By the end of the night I have twenty sets of dog tags to mail home.

When I finally make it back to camp, the sun is almost rising. I walk through our tent, brushing past the rows of empty bunks, trying not to feel. Trying not to think of Wilson, the best shot I ever saw, or Trevor, who looked younger than Rory when he slept, or Burns, who was always good for a cigarette and a rude joke.

And I see the few men that are left, tears cutting bright tracks through the soot on their faces, nursing injuries, or just staring straight ahead with wet, red, devastated eyes.

And I can't stay in the tent staring at my misery reflected in their faces. So I go outside and let the rain beat against me with its sharp, icy pinpricks. I lift my face to the sky, so darkened with smoke that I can't even see the sunrise, and I let the rain wash away the dirt and blood caked on my skin.

I let myself remember Johnson with his stupid smile, and Adair, who could never win at cards, and poor, little Slim, who was only seventeen. None of us even knew his real name.

And as the rain mingles with my tears, and falls in muddy rivulets from my face and down my neck, eventually swirling in dirty pools around my boots, I let myself feel the rain, cold and bracing on my skin. And it doesn't feel like it's washing away my pain. It doesn't feel like some kind of baptism or benediction or catharsis. But it feels. And that means I'm alive.

And for right now, that's more than enough.

Part V. 379 days left.

Mazer Preston died today.

The news blasted triumphantly across Capitol-controlled channels. _We have destroyed your war hero _they seem to say. _Captured him and broken him_ they gloat, splashing his snapped neck and mangled legs in perfect high-resolution, mega-pixilated color across the country. And it goes without saying: _You're next. You and your rebellion._

The strangest thing was that I was prepared for the announcement. That morning, before the Capitol had prepared and arranged his body for the cameras, I had come home from work to find a telegraph. A thin yellow envelope with only two lines: _Automatic mailing to next-of-kin. Mazer Preston died in the line of duty_.

I gasped in surprise, sure it was some kind of sick joke. But then his dog tags slipped out of the envelope, a little smudge of blood still visible on the chain.

And it's funny because even though we hadn't spoken since the Mockingjay Ball, Mazer chose me as his contact in case of death. And I realized with a start that maybe it's because, despite his charm and his fame and his dazzling smile, he had no one else to tell.

And I crumple the telegraph brutally, my eyes stinging, my mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile. I start to tremble, and the tears fall unheeded. I clutch my hair and curl into myself, right there on the kitchen floor. And I shudder as I cry for the man whom I mistreated because I didn't think he needed me. I cry for poor Mazer, with his flawless façade and smoldering eyes. The man who held me and wanted me and made me feel alive for the first time in years. I cry for the man who pretended to be so happy, but who didn't have anyone to tell that he died except me, the woman who left him without explanation, cold and changeable as the wind.

And I cry for this world, this damn cruel world, which feeds the monster of war with the lives of the innocent and the loving and the young. The perfectly imperfect.

Part VI. 365 days left

Our platoon is constantly refilled when we lose a man. Soldiers are transferred and trained and integrated as quickly as possible to fill the front lines. To display an unbroken chain of resistance to the Capitol.

But it's not the same. Faces come and go so quickly I can barely learn their names. Or their skills. Sometimes, I don't even recognize half the troops under my command.

I've almost stopped trying to learn about them. They all look the same anyway. They all have the same story. Food, revenge, hate. Their eyes are the same too, lost and hopeless. I can't distinguish their faces even, though they seem to get younger every week.

And one day when I was in my commander's tent, trying not to think about the line of kids sent to me only to be crushed by the wheels of war, I saw it on the table. Its glassy sides cool and sweating, perfectly clear, perfectly tempting.

And that night, I swallowed my pride and snuck into his tent like a common thief, stealthy and silent as I used to be on a hunt. And I took it.

Back in my tent I stare at the bottle. Glistening and enticing, smooth and wet like the skin of a siren, calling me, begging me, offering herself to me, that perfect release.

And hell yeah I take a sip.

It's wonderful, that familiar feeling as it blazes and scratches its way down my throat, almost as if it refuses to go down without a fight.

And that warmth, spreading through my limbs. The sound of the liquid sloshing in the bottle. That noxious smell burning my nostrils. That haziness, that heavenly, dizzy forgetfulness.

I take another sip. And another. And another. Savoring the bitterness and the burn and the blessed numbness.

And it isn't until I finish the entire bottle that I realize alcohol tastes a lot like misery, harsh and stinging and sad.

And I promise myself that if I ever make it out of this God-forsaken war alive, I will never take another drink again.

Part VII. 343 days left.

I received my diploma today. There wasn't any fanfare or elaborate ceremony. Just the instructor calling my name, the short walk up to the front of the room, and the handing over of a clean, creamy piece of cardstock.

The other students all had a parent, a sibling, a significant other for a hug and a round of applause. But I had no one. The kids were at school and Hazelle was at work, and I only had the polite claps and perfunctory handshakes of my classmates.

But it didn't matter because it was wonderful. I've never smiled so widely or been more proud than when the instructor congratulated me and handed me that seemingly insignificant piece of paper. Because that paper is anything but insignificant to me. It is proof that my years of hard living, of hunger, of degradation and embarrassment and doubt, were worth it. It is my ticket to a better a life. A meaningful life.

And the first thing I did was march out of the room and through the labyrinthine Underground hallways and into The Black Heart. And I walked up to my boss and handed him my apron and my dress and my notepad and told him that I quit.

And he surprised me because he didn't argue or belittle me. He nodded ruefully and told me that he always knew this would happen. And then he handed me my last paycheck and walked me to the door, and all the guys in the bar whistled and clapped and threw out a few crudely good-natured jokes when he announced that I was leaving.

And it felt really strange and I didn't understand why until I realized that I was smiling. Truly smiling. I had almost forgotten what it felt like. And with a smile on my lips I left The Black Heart forever. Forever.

And I walked back to my place and pushed open the door, and there I found Hazelle and Rory and Vick and Posy and Prim and Mrs. E, and they were all clapping and cheering and hooting and dancing. And the whole group of us barely fit in my tiny living room, and my heart felt just as full.

And right at the end of the night, when Mrs. E and Prim had left, and the kids were yawning and rubbing their eyes and putting on their shoes, Hazelle took me to the side and showed me a letter that Gale had written to her. And in it he asked her to give me something as a graduation present.

She handed me a little fabric bundle, and when I opened it I found a pendant. A simple wooden heart with a small hole for a necklace, clearly and loving hand-carved. And even before Hazelle told me that Gale had made years ago when he was a kid in the woods in District 12, I could tell by the symmetry of the lines and the deliberate perfection of it's shape, that only Gale could make something so simple and yet so beautiful.

And I could just picture him making it so long ago, sitting under the shade of a tree, his skin warm and brown and unscarred in the dappled sunlight, his eyes focused with concentration, his long fingers and calloused hands purposeful and precise as he shaved the wood with his knife. And I smile at the thought that he carved this heart all those years ago without knowing that one day he would give it to me.

And after everyone leaves, I loop a thin piece of ribbon through the hole of the pendant, and I drape it around my neck, the heart nestled in the warm, secret place between my breasts. And there isn't a moment I take off the necklace for the rest of my life.

Part VI. 323 days left.

I received a letter from my mom today telling me that Madge graduated and that she loved the present I picked out for her. And though I knew it wasn't much, I was sure that Madge would appreciate something that I made with my own hands over any words I could write to her or anything that money could buy.

I'm so proud of Madge. All the work she put in, all the obstacles she overcame, all those impossible facts and convoluted reactions she learned so that she could reach this moment.

Mom also told me that Madge quit her job at the bar as soon as she received her diploma, and that makes me happier than anything.

And as I lay in my sleeping bag and look up at the stars, the sounds of camp and the rustle of the other soldiers around me a dim backdrop of sound, I let myself think of Madge finally free of that awful place, and I smile.

That night I dream of Madge in her tight, black dress. But she's not in the bar surrounded by men. It's just her and me in her little apartment, and I lay her down on the bed and I use my teeth to take off that black dress of hers forever.

…

**A/N: **I hope you guys liked it. I feel like I'm losing all my writing skills in dental school because we don't do any writing here whatsoever. I'd love to hear your thoughts. And also, I'd love some positive vibes to help me through this super-tough curriculum. Cheers!


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Hey friends! I know it has been ages and ages, but good news: I've finished my first year of dental school! I can hardly believe it. And I will say that all of your words of encouragement were so, so appreciated. I was really struggling for a while, and your positive energy really helped my pull through…so thank you!

More good news! This story won for Best Alternative Pairing WIP at the Pearl Awards! Um, not certain who nominated me or who the heck is voting, but thank you! Seriously, that is amazing!

Also, a huge thanks to my wonderful reviewers: **SuperObsessive,** thank you!, **Howlynn, **gosh, what great reviews, and I have so much to reply that I think I will have to PM you, but at least let me say: David Foster Wallace is freaking awesome and I love that I finally know another fan of his!, **nebakanezer, ** thanks, it's always nice to hear from new fans, **carrieabanner, pansy25, **I'm still amazed at how upset readers were about Mazer!, **Estrunk, papermoth, **where the heck are you? I miss your stories!, **SuperJule, Sparkledith, charlie is so cool like fan, katehaven, **what a nice review!, **Ireth Tasartir Elf Princess, TheNerdiBarbieDoll, **I love your enthusiasm…it makes me happy!, **Hgteampeeta, **I always love your reviews!, **technicolor-dreaming, **thanks so much! I'm totally paranoid about my writing since I'm out of practice so your words mean a lot, **roj, Solaryllis, **your reviews are always so helpful and sincere; also, I can't wait to catch up on your stories when I have more time!, **IsForWinners, Lovestoread1996. **I apologize if I forgot anyone!

Also, a special shout out to **Estrunk** who kept sending me messages pushing me to keep writing…so you can all thank her because I probably wouldn't have had the motivation to continue if it wasn't for her perseverance. Thank you!

**Chapter 10:**

Part I.

We're almost there. The heart of the Capitol.

Last week we breached the walls around the center of town, finally breaking through the formerly ornamental marble gates, now transformed into a vicious barricade bristling with machine guns and patrolled by fire and barbed wire and sleepless eyes.

It's disgusting, the way the politicians and richest Capitol citizens live inside the walls. Bloated and contemptuous in their gargantuan homes, gabled and landscaped; smug with their sweeping balconies and lush flowers, fountains and peacocks and gilded gates.

But their wealth can't buy these hoarders and thieves safety or mercy. Their rolling lawns and vast facades have been turned into staging grounds for the Capitol's forces. The clean white lines of their mansions are marred with soot and riddled with bullet holes. Their loggias are now vantage points for snipers. We raid their golden banquet halls, using the furniture for firewood and the space for ammunition storage.

It's terrible, this final push towards Snow's palatial residence at the town center. The Capitol is furious in its desperation, refusing to yield an inch.

Every time we kick down a door, swarms of Capitol soldiers pour out. Each block is a tortuous minefield of traps and shrapnel and gunfire. Flaming debris fall constantly from the sky as the Capitol's last hovercrafts desperately dogfight with our few remaining fighters.

Nights are the worst. We hunker down in trenches, hastily dug in the churned up mud of once-beautiful gardens, the genetically engineered and sickeningly perfumed flowers a strange contrast to the dirt and fear and infection rising with the water at our feet. Sleep is nearly impossible with the freezing damp of the mud below and the harsh spitting of gunfire above, so constant it is impossible to lift your head without the fear of losing it.

But even cramped and crowded in our grave-like beds, I can see the grim understanding etched into the lines of the rebels' faces, the hardness of their eyes. We don't have the choice to fall back, or the manpower to launch a new assault. This is our final stand. Our only chance.

Slowly our ranks grow, as though this bleak knowledge is somehow transmitted throughout Panem. Rebels from around the country hear our silent calls for reinforcements. The lines fill with old men, fragile and hunched, wispy white hair and emaciated with hunger. Boys materialize in the fog, their skin glowing and young, their cheeks curving softly like babies, their eyes wide and afraid. Men already injured limp into our camp. Men with one eye or one arm or burns marring their faces.

Because we have no choice. Regardless of age or injury or previous service, we are all sentenced to die if we don't win this final fight.

And it is a fight. Each inch a bitter conquest; crushing the bodies of our comrades under our boots with each step. And despite our terrible, terrible losses, each day brings us a little closer to Snow, our gains carried on a roiling, bloody sea of the dead.

I forget what fresh air feels like. What my fingers look like when they aren't covered with smears of blood. I fall asleep holding my gun, because I feel strange without it's weight in my hands. My vision blurs with dehydration and disease and lack of sleep; my ears ring with the sounds of gunshots and screams and shouted orders. The air is tinged yellow with noxious gas and death, and I can taste the metallic flavor of blood and desperation in the wind.

And in the haze of killing and noise and screams and blood, there is only one thing I know. One thing I think. The mantra that keeps us moving, even if it does not keep us sane: _Almost there. Almost there. Almost there._

…

"It's a girl, Captain!" the soldier cries over the whistle of missiles and thudding of tank fire, waving me over frantically.

"Cover me!" I yell to the young soldier next to me. He pivots up from behind the blackened hull of the burnt-out hovercraft we are hunching behind and lets out a burst of fire. I crouch and run forwards, my boots crackling the gravel and shrapnel underfoot.

I duck behind a pile of broken bricks and twisted metal, the only remains of a lavish two-story and look where the lieutenant is indicating. A little girl, not more than four, lies on her back, one side of her face a bloody pulp, the other strangely pristine and pale, looking for all the world as though caught in the innocence of childish sleep.

"Shit," I breathe out, touching her cluster of brown curls, so much like Posy's hair when she was a baby. "How did this happen?" I say, turning to the lieutenant, the sound of gunshots concealing the crack in my voice. "I thought the city was evacuated!"

"It was, sir," the soldier shouts over the sounds of battle raging around us. "But some were kept behind!"

""Kept?" I ask, confused, trying to ignore the lump growing in my throat and the pool of blood spreading out from the girl's body and soaking the knees of my fatigues.

"Look," the soldier says, lightly lifting the limp hand of the girl at my feet. It's pale and soft, plump and small with girlish pink nail polish. And then I see what the soldier means. What I thought was a delicate silver chain around her wrist is really a set of handcuffs, one ring around her wrist, the other attached to the charred remains of the balcony rail.

I look up in horror, meeting the soldier's eyes. Just as quickly I look at the advancing line of the rebel assault, already several blocks ahead of us. And the soldier in a voice heavy with dread confirms what I fear with all my heart but I already know to be true:

"Sir, they're using the children as human shields."

Part II.

In the silent, most secret places of our hearts, we all knew it was bound to happen to one of us. But it is still a heavy blow when Vick falls ill, another victim of the plague tearing through the Underground. No one knows the cause of the disease, perhaps some insidious mix of malnutrition and dehydration and despair.

But we do know that it is impossible to afford medical care. And we also know that no one comes back from the free government quarantine rooms. So we risk keeping Vick at home, sweating, groaning, curled under a thin blanket as we take turns wiping his forehead and whispering hopeless prayers to anyone who will listen.

Vick was always more gentle than his brothers, and it breaks my heart to see his wide, sensitive eyes glassy with fever, his lips raw and chapped, his little chest straining under the force of his coughs.

Rory's eyes are heartbreaking too. They become dark and hard, glittering with toxic malice, a new hate growing inside him. I watch helplessly as he hardens like Gale once did. His shirt stretching over his shoulders, and his hands perpetually curled into fists, a boy forced to bear the burdens of a man, the burdens even no man should have to bear. And I know it's only a matter of time before he too is on the front lines.

Posy changes as well. She is no longer laughing and precocious. Instead of giggling and running and playing make believe with her dolls, she bites her lips and doesn't speak much. She hides behind doorways, her eyes wide and cheeks hollow. Scared to leave home, quiet and afraid. Trembling, pale, clutching to me, always unsure.

And then there is Hazelle, rushing home everyday from work, entering the house with fear and panic in every movement. The relief is visible in the sagging of her shoulders when she sees Vick is still alive. And every day she kneels by his bedside and strokes his limp hair with hands cracked and bleeding, her spirit broken, tears mingling with the dark shadows under her eyes.

Part III.

A haze.

A surreal, impossible haze.

The sharp, stinging sound of gunfire. Billowing smoke. The acrid scent of burning and dying in my nostrils.

The words: _We can't go back._

An explosion. Fire. Flaming debris falling from the heavens.

I'm lost in hell.

_We can't go back, Hawthorne. _

And the children, everywhere the children. Rory and Vick and Posy and Prim and _we have the advantage. We can't go back._

They're just Capitol children anyway.

I scream. I fight. I call the Commander a bastard, my throat scraped raw.

Another terrible explosion rocks the ground. A blinding rainbow of light and death and screams. Rocks flying and buildings collapsing, folding over like pieces of paper. Cheers from the men as hovercrafts fly overhead, strafing the remaining Capitol forces with their guns.

The children! Damn it, the children! Am I the only one that sees the children?

Their wrists bound together, their screams muffled by strips of tape. Some writhing in the ground where rubble has fallen. The roads strewn with their broken bodies.

And the rebels are cheering.

Dead eyes staring at me. Blaming me. Betrayal written in their shattered skulls and twisted limbs. No. No.

NO!

I feel hands pulling me back to the truck. Thrashing, struggling. My mind blank with shock, playing tricks on me in the smoke and wreckage. I see Rory on the ground, blood spilling out of his cracked skull. I see Vick lying under an overturned truck. And Posy. Posy everywhere, in every bunch of windswept curls, in every ripped dress.

My fault. My fault. My fault. The words crash in my head in time to the jolting of the truck. The chaos of the battlefield recedes slowly, though I can still hear the wailing of the children long after I've lost sight of the battle. Why hadn't I noticed it before?

Or is it a figment of my imagination, just another haunting creation of my fevered mind?

They drop me off at our deserted camp outside the city wall. All of the men have cleared out to help in the fight. The only sounds are a clanging in the mess tent and the groan of the truck emitting a puff of exhaust as it departs for the front lines again.

"Are you alright, soldier?" A soft hand on my cheek and the trace of perfume in the haze.

I look up. Dark eyes and a painted smile.

"I'm fine!" I yell, turning away, ready to run back to battlefield even though I know there is nothing I can do.

"Let me help, darling," she whispers, her voice a quiet point in the chaos.

"The children!" I shout panicked, broken. My skin feels feverish with panic and anger. Why doesn't she understand? But maybe she does, with her hand cool on my skin.

"Hush," the girl whispers, her fingers press gently to my lips. "Don't think on it now."

My eyes can't seem to focus. "No you don't understand. They're just ki-" I try again as her lips touch mine, the rest of my words lost in our mingled breath.

"Hush," she says again before pressing herself against me. "Let me help you forget."

Forget. Help you forget.

I can't. But to forget…

"No," I try half-heartedly, turning one more time, but the heat and the rage and the madness are receding, and her lips are insistent and my head is swimming and I feel her hand tracing a slow trail down my chest and my stomach and unbuttoning my pants, and I feel so damn confused and lost. And forget. She'll help me forget.

And I put my hands in her hair and pull her closer to me, and she's so soft. I hear her groan and feel her nails digging sharply into the skin of my back where she's wormed her fingers under my shirt.

And she's warm and supple and _thank god_ alive. And in a world where everything is smoke and nightmares, damn it, she's real. And her teeth are scraping against mine and her shirt has come off in my hands and her hair, _god_ her hair. Her hair, like blond silk and the way she bites her lip. And her cheeks flushed that perfect pink, her eyelashes fluttering, her breath at my ear whispering my name-

"Mmm," she whispers, her breath hot on my face. "Tell me what Madge likes."

"What?" I say, thickly, blinking the girl into focus.

"Madge," she says, kissing my neck. "You just called me Madge." Her lips are wet on my skin, and suddenly I see her. So thin her hips jut through her waxy skin, her bony wrists on my chest, her hair dark and eyes painted with kohl. And Madge. I called her Madge.

"Holy shit!" I say, pushing her away in horror. "I didn't mean it. Please, just leave me alone," I say, turning away, and she must hear the desperation in my voice because she doesn't follow.

"Sorry, here," I say turning back to her. I empty the coins from my pocket, trying to keep steady though the world is spinning. "Here," I shove them at her. "Just leave me alone."

She grasps eagerly for the coins, some of them falling to the ground as I thrust them towards her. She drops to her knees, her bony fingers like spiders scrabbling for the pieces of silver as they roll in the mud. I stumble away in a panic, disgusted. My mind a mess. Reeling. Hallucinating. The children. Vick. Posy. Madge. Shit. Shit. I stumble on a rock jutting out of the ground and fall forward, stars bursting in front of my eyes with the shock of the pain.

Vick. Madge. Dead. All dead. The mud is cool against my skin. Madge. Madge. Madge. No.

Darkness swirls in front of my eyes, and the last thing I remember is being desperately thankful that I finally get to _rest_. And then, oblivion.

Part IV.

I wake with a start in the middle of the night. Sweating, heart pounding. My ears ringing with metallic fear and silence.

The room is dark and quiet and cool. It was just a dream, I think with relief. Just a dream.

I pad softly through the hall and cup my hands under the sputtering sink. The cloudy water tastes musty in mouth. I stare at myself in the cracked and spotted mirror—hair limp, face sallow, skin white as a sheet.

Was I dreaming of Vick, with his gentle eyes and his little hands and his sheet dusted with specks of coughed-up blood? Or was I dreaming of Katniss, dark shadows under her eyes, as she calls for rebel aid on the television, her words fierce but her eyes dead, pleading for help more out of habit than anything else? Or was I dreaming of hunger, that monster hunger, always gnawing at the inside of my belly with acid and shards of glass and razor-sharp jaws?

_Or was it Gale? _The thought rises unbidden in my mind.

Gale. A burning twist of fear coils in my stomach. There hasn't been a letter in weeks. Only static on the television. Our only hope the supply trucks that still leave for the front lines. Our only news incomplete lists of the dead pinned to the wall of the army office, old, outdated, curling with age and the constant handling of the fearful families left behind. Rude candles and pictures placed underneath, rudimentary offerings to nonexistent gods. Impotent prayers for mercy or salvation or hope. A token to all things lost.

Gale. Who has vanished in the gunfire and smoke of war. I clutch his pendant, the one I wear so close to my heart, my only evidence that Gale exists, that I didn't dream him up all along.

And suddenly I feel a spark. Something strange and energetic and alive. And suddenly I realize that it's _anger_. A molten rage burns through my limbs and crackles out of me to the very ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers and I _scream_ and I push all of the empty bottles and jars from the counter, tired of shaking and scraping each one for the last, last drop of everything. Tired of being helpless. Tired of the hate in Rory's eyes and the defeat in Hazelle's heart and Prim, just a child, trying to nurse Vick with her concern and her sweetness and her ineffectual cold compresses, and Posy silent and transparent as a specter. I rip the sheets off the bed, hurl the pillow across the room, ransack the drawers of all my clothes. Because I'm _tired_. Tired of tears and fears and being the plaything of fate and disaster, at the whim of the world and events around me.

I _didn't_ come this far to fail. I didn't lose my mother and my father and my home and my love to lose everything and be so, damn alone and _helpless_.

I fall to the ground, exhausted. And amid the ripped and broken pieces of all that I have left, I stare, heaving, at the ventilation system, the only thing that still works in this God-forsaken place. And I think of Gale when he showed it to me, his grin like a burst of sunshine. And it feels like it was years and years ago.

I force myself to slow my breathing. I know tomorrow I will clean and fold and sweep up the mess and get back to the daily struggle, the awful, impossible attempt at survival. But for now it's just me in my ruined room, all alone at night with the memories of the lost.

But I squeeze my eyes closed and push those memories away with all my might. Lock them in my heart where they can't hurt me. Dig my nails viciously into my hands until the pain defeats the prickling in my eyes.

And instead I think of home. Before it turned to dust. I think of sunshine and flowers in my hair and strawberries on Harvest Day, tasting like summer and sunlight, and a time before war.

And I think of Gale with his cheeky grin and a shock of hair falling in his eyes. The way he would cook for me or rub my feet after a long day at work. The way he would smirk when I couldn't reach the top shelf.

I remember his laugh and his tears and this look of his that would send starbursts of desire spiraling through me every time. I remember his hair, black silk under my fingertips. I think of his strong arms holding me; the way I felt protected in their circle as he held me safe against his chest, solid and hard.

I think of his hands, so firm and so gentle when his fingers intertwined with mine. I remember the touch of his stubble against my cheek. The fire of his skin as it brushed against mine. The sound of his breath hitching in the dark.

Heat pools inside of me, and my limbs tingle remembering his touch, his taste, his warmth. The nip of his teeth, the ridged planes of his back, the fierce blazing in his eyes as he consumed me with his heat and his strength, my body alive and singing in the dark.

But when I open my eyes, it's just me, alone in the gloom. The vent fanning my heated cheeks with a cool breeze. But I'm not alone. Not really. There is the fear. Always the fear, like a stone in my gut. The fear of losing him. Of living without him. Of being the only one left behind.

Part V.

The war ended today.

I wasn't even there to see it. I was in the med tent, amid the shrieks and the chaos and the smell of antiseptic. I swore to myself that I'd rather die than go back to the med tent. The med tent, where for two weeks after my breakdown over the Capitol's use of human shields I had lain in a heated delirium, disoriented, hallucinating, pumped full of antibiotics and sleep syrup, screaming, battling infection and dehydration and my own demons.

I was cleared for service not long after, and three months later I was at the front lines, leading the assault through the gold and marble corridors of Snow's palatial residence. Our boots slipping on the slicks of blood covering the stone hallways, our throats clogged with smoke and gunpowder and fear, the fighting final and fierce.

It was madness. A maze of flames and explosions, bloodcurdling screams and collapsing walls. My legs were burning with fatigue, my throat hoarse from shouting orders, my arms numb from the constant shuddering of my machine gun.

There was no plan, no stratagem. Just kill. Kill all of them. Tactics and prep and strategy were useless against an enemy that only knew how to destroy. And so our plan was to overrun Snow's palace. Kill until there was no one left to kill. No one left but Snow.

And so we killed. Running through the impossible labyrinth. Dodging bullets and fire, covered in blood, dripping sweat, grime encrusted to our very eyelashes. A nasty surprise behind every corner; a horrifying maze of death. Racing past our fallen comrades, not daring to look at their faces, and _oh God, please don't let me be next_.

I'm rounding another corner, gun firing, when a blast rips through the corridor. My vision goes black as a force like a punch in the gut throws me back into a stone wall. I hear a crack as my neck whiplashes forward, and red spots dance on front of my eyes. I crouch and cover my head, trying to ignore the searing pain slicing through my back like a red-hot lash, as lethal hunks of rock fall from the ceiling, amid shouts and the wet thunk of stone crushing flesh.

The rocks don't even settle by the time the rebels start firing again. I shake my head, trying to think through the fog of pain clouding my head, and I scrabble backwards as my vision clears and I see a chunk of human leg, meaty and thick, right in front of me.

"Shit! Focus, Hawthorne," I tell myself, breathing hard.

And when I do focus all I see is the owner of the leg. Lying several feet away, the remains of his limb crushed under a stone pillar, his body convulsing with pain. And I know if I leave him here he'll bleed out in minutes.

"Damn it," I mutter, crouching and running toward him, bullets zinging around me. I grab the soldier below his armpits and drag him from under the crushing weight of the stone, leaving a wet patch of skin and leg behind. The soldier screams in agony, his eyes wild and dilated, his skin feverish with the pain.

And I make my way back through all of the twists and turns and hallways and anterooms, chambers and passageways, stairs and rooms I had fought through minutes before. Some of the rooms still blaze with fighting, others are heavy with the groans of the injured.

And the whole way the soldier screams, inarticulate with anguish, as I lug him over shrapnel and debris and others who are fortunate enough to already be dead, his leg nothing but a gory stump, punctured by yellow shards of splintered bone and wet with flaps of skin, leaving a bloody trail behind us.

When we finally reach the med tent, I sink into a chair, exhausted, as harried medics pull the soldier away, scrambling to staunch the blood flow and calling desperately for morphling that is already in short supply.

I'm not sure how much time passes as my vision slips in and out of focus, my back throbbing heavily like the rhythmic pounding of shotgun slugs, my body aching with tension and exhaustion.

"It's over!" A voice rings out, like a clear brass bell in a haze of fog. I wake up suddenly at the sound, instantly on the alert. "We have Snow! It's over!"

The medics take up a ragged cheer, and even some of the patients manage to clap each other on the back. Confused, I sit up straighter, my grip tightening on my gun, feeling like it's a trick, feeling like I should be doing _something_. How can it just be over?

"Stop celebrating and help me!" a man cries, and suddenly we are all back in the present, in the med tent, soldiers still moaning and writhing.

But I look around and see that shoulders are a little straighter, eyes a little less panicked, voices whispering excitedly as the news travels.

A man lying on a bed next to me groans and screams then, that awful, animal shrieking scream that men only make when the pain is unendurable. And I don't even have the energy to feel concern. To feel excitement about the war or hope for the future or anger that the man I pulled from Snow's palace will probably die even though the war is over.

I just feel tired. I don't even care when my eyes drift shut. I just give in, and I let myself fall asleep and dream of home.

Part VI. 4 months left.

An official letter came with the first hovercrafts returning from the front lines. It said that even though the war is over, Gale hasn't completed his full tour of duty, and he is needed for recovery operations, to help deal with prisoners and survivors alike.

Ever since that letter, I refuse to look up at the sky every time I hear a new hovercraft rumble above, refuse to feel that spark of expectation that maybe, just maybe Gale was released early.

Instead I let myself be patient and content. Content that I can finally breathe in the sunlight. I haven't had a breath of fresh air in two years, and I still haven't yet. The air above District 13 is laced with radiation and invisible noxious fumes. But even the metallic, recycled air of the Underground, canned and compressed into an oxygen tank, feels fresher now that I'm allowed outside to work on radiation cleanup, out of the claustrophobic hallways of the District where the air tasted less of metal and more of fear and desperation.

I let myself be content now that food supplies have slowly started increasing again. As a few, scattered doctors return from the front lines. As we are told that medicine, the best the Capitol has to offer, is coming soon.

I let myself be content that I finally, _finally_ have a chance to do something useful, to rebuild. And that Gale does too. That he can finally use those sharp eyes and capable hands to create instead of destroy. I know his heart is good, and that he was never meant to fight and kill, that that burden was thrust upon him with the war. No, Gale was meant to help people survive and grow; that's why he was able to take care of his family for all those years in District 12, why he helped all those people, too poor or too panicked to think to bribe the Peacekeepers, when our homes were being burned to the ground. And now that the war is over, Gale can finally put down his guns and his armor and the thick walls he has built around himself so he can endure the fighting, and he can finally fix and construct and help, just what he was born to do.

And I am content with the whisper of a feeling I know is growing in my heart. A feeling I don't even let myself put a name to. But even though I refuse to acknowledge it, I know it's there. That glimmer building in my chest, that little smile almost tugging the corner of my lips. I start eating better, taking care of myself. I scrub my skin so it will glow. I start soaking my hands in oil to begin healing the cracks and blisters I never cared about before. I trim my hair and wash it carefully, checking every day if it's healthy enough to curl the way he likes.

Because I know that the feeling in my heart will only grow more potent. Every time I look up and feel the sunlight on my skin. Every time I see Vick getting stronger now that he has proper food. Every time I hear Posy giggle again. Every time I think of Gale, every time I smile, every time I think about the future. I know that feeling, though I never imagined I would experience it again. That strange, bubbling, dizzying, delightful feeling:

_Hope_.

…

**A/N: **So part of the reason it took so long for me to get this chapter out is that I found it really, really difficult to write all of the battle scenes. I would really appreciate any feedback you have because I really had no idea what I was doing! Also, I know these past two chapters have been super dark, and not much has happened romantically, and maybe the characters have done things that aren't really likeable, but I just wanted to show the extreme circumstances they had to endure. I'd really love to know what you think!

Also, I think I really only have one chapter left in this story, unless some strange inspiration strikes. So hopefully I'll be able to pound it out this summer before I get super busy with school again!

Cheers, friends!


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